m^^_^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B  ^K«||^B|^^^^^K^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B 

• 

The  Little 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Clark  J.  Milliron 


The   Little   Gods 


. 


The  Deputy  Supervisor  revealed  to  them  the  thrilling  difference 
between  a  peach  and  an  apple." 

[FuoNTisriECE.     See  p.  297 


The  Little  Gods 

A  Masque  of   the  Far    East 


BY 

ROWLAND   THOMAS 


Illustrated  by  Charles  Sarka 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1909 


Copyright,  1907,  by  The  Ridgway  Company. 

Copyright,  1905,  1906,  1907,  1908,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &*  Son. 

Copyright,  1909,  by  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  March,  1909. 
Second  Impression. 


Electpotyped  and  Printed  at 
THE  COLONIAL  PRESS: 
C.  H.  Simonds  £&  Co.,  Boston,  U  .S. A. 


JL, 


To 

MY   MOTHER  AND  MY  FATHER 


829485 


The  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  the 
publishers  of  Collier's  and  Everybody's  Magazine 
in  granting  him  permission  to  reprint  the  stories 
which  appeared  in  those  magazines. 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE.     THE  LITTLE  GODS    . 

CHAPTER        I.     FAGAN 

II.     GOD'S  LITTLE  DEVILS 

III.  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

IV.  A      LITTLE      RIPPLE      OF 

PATRIOTISM  . 

V.    THE  SUPERFALOUS  MAN  . 
VI.    THE  VALLEY  OF  SUNSHINE 

AND  SHADOW 

VII.    WHAT  OKIMI  LEARNED     . 
VIII.    WHERE     THERE     Is     No 

TURNING 

IX.    AN  OPTIMIST 
X.    THIS  FORTUNE    . 
XL     McGENNis's  PROMOTION  . 
EPILOGUE 


Page     i 

9 

"      40 
"      60 


77 
104 

129 
1 60 

178 
204 

235 
271 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  THE  DEPUTY  SUPERVISOR  REVEALED  TO 
THEM  THE  THRILLING  DIFFERENCE  BE 
TWEEN  A  PEACH  AND  AN  APPLE  " 
( McGennis's  Promotion  )  .  .  Frontispiece 

"  ALL    I    WANTED     WAS     A     FA  YAH      SHOW  "         Page   1 6 

FAGAN  AND  PATRICIA  .....  "34 
"  ADIOS,  SENOR  DON  AUGUSTO  "  "  46 

"  FOUGHT  WITH  —  DISHES  AND  —  KNIVES 

AND  FORKS  " "  7° 

"  DOLORES  GAZED  DOWN  ON  HER  LITTLE 

WORLD  AS  IT  WENT  TO  SLEEP  "  .  .  "  185 
"  WlTH  LOOSE  REINS  RODE  OFF  TO  HIS 

HOUSE  " "      298 


THE  LITTLE  GODS 


PROLOGUE 

THE    LITTLE   GODS 

For  the  life  of  me,  as  I  was  sitting  here  this 
sunny,  late-October  morning,  I  could  not 
write,  a  distressing  condition,  truly,  for  one 
who  lives  by  writing. 

Outside  the  windows  of  this  quiet  country 
house  lay  the  lean  fields  of  New  England, 
soberly  beautiful  enough  in  their  fading  au 
tumnal  colorings,  but  somehow  yielding  no 
inspiration  —  forgive  the  pretentious  and  con 
venient  word  —  no  inspiration  for  my  pen. 

All  around  me  my  neighbors  were  busy; 
soberly  engaged,  each  man  of  them,  in  safe 
guarding  himself,  his  body,  soul,  and  his  pos 
sessions,  against  the  accidents  of  life  and 
death.  They  too,  somehow,  failed  to  inspire 
that  sluggish  bit  of  pointed  gold.  Neither  do 


2  The  Little  Gods 

your  sober  neighbors,  friend,  as  I  think  of 
them.  In  all  essentials  they  might  be  my  own. 
For  we  are  all  a  care-worn  people,  we  of  this 
young  West,  moving  always  circumspectly, 
hedging  ourselves  round  with  a  tenfold  wall 
against  surprises,  with  creeds  and  codes  and 
philosophies  innumerable,  all  warranted  Hell- 
proof  and  Heaven-kissing. 

We  count  him  wisest  who  lives  and  loves 
and  dies  most  by  rule.  And  the  rule  is  that 
rule  of  our  Tory  Grecian  forbears,  "  Never  too 
much."  "  We  may  be  a  wise  people  and  a 
happy  people,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  but  we  are 
quite  too  prudent  to  be  counted  young,  in  any 
thing  but  years."  And  so  that  bit  of  gold  hung 
uninspired  as  when  it  left  the  shop.  It  waited 
for  livelier,  more  zestful  topics  than  the  daily 
grind  of  sober  middle  age. 

Then  all  at  once,  it  seemed,  familiar  voices 
called  to  me  from  that  East  we  deem  so  old, 
and  I  was  back  there.  A  street  stretched  be 
neath  me,  such  a  street  as  only  the  Far  East 
knows,  and  there  only  in  one  enchanted  city. 
It  was  a  wide  street,  and  a  long  one,  all 
aquiver  with  hot,  stinging  sunlight.  It  zvas 
walled  with  solid,  four-square  houses,  and 
above  them  roofs  and  pinnacles  rose  in  a  hun- 


Prologue  3 

dred  fantastic,  airy  shapes  for  which  our  West 
ern  architecture  has  no  names,  and  the  fronts 
of  the  houses  Hashed  with  decorations  of  bar 
baric  red  and  gold.  The  street  flamed  with 
them.  And  all  down  the  spacious,  sun-flooded 
length  of  it,  filling  it  from  brim  to  brim,  like 
a  river,  poured  a  current  of  tumultuous  life. 

From  out  the  crowd  eyes  met  mine,  just  as 
they  used  to  do.  Eyes  of  men  intent  on  con 
quest,  of  goods,  perhaps,  or  power,  or  pleas 
ure,  the  eyes  of  men  who  sought,  not  so 
berly.  Mocking,  inviting,  smiling,  fathomless, 
straightforward  eyes  of  women,  who,  forget 
ting,  or  unknowing  Heaven  and  Hell,  still 
knew  that  they  were  women,  mistresses  of  a 
woman's  joys  and  sorrows.  Eyes  of  losers  at 
the  game,  unhopeful  but  uncowed.  Thou 
sands  of  eyes  glanced  up  at  me,  and  not  one 
solitary  pair  of  them  were  like  the  eyes  that 
look  out  soberly  from  your  neighbor's  head,  or 
mine. 

As  my  eyes  questioned  theirs,  it  seemed  to 
me  again,  just  as  it  used  to  do,  that  there  in 
the  old  East,  where  life  began,  it  still  throbs 
most  strongly,  tingles  most  with  the  hot  blood 
of  youth;  that  there  men,  eternally  young,  are 
still  most  unafraid,  grasp  with  least  hesitation 


4  The  Little  Gods 

all  life  offers  them,  and  accept  the  outcome  of 
their  choice  with  most  sincerity. 

As  I  was  thinking  that,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  went  down  into  the  life  and  stinging  sun 
shine  of  the  street,  and  mingled  with  it,  till  at 
last  my  steps  led  me  down  an  alley  and  across 
a  drawbridge  that  spanned  a  green  and  pesti 
lential  moat,  and  I  approached  the  low  gate 
way  of  a  gray  Walled  City  which  was  old 
when  History  was  young.  I  passed  under  the 
cavern  of  the  gate  —  and  my  feet  rang  on  the 
worn  flagstones  as  I  passed  —  and  came  into 
a  narrow  street  between  low,  sombre  houses 
without  windows,  and  so  presently  to  a  tem 
ple  which  in  that  city  bears  an  unpleasant  rep 
utation.  Not  that  scandal  hangs  about  it  — 
it  takes  Christian  tongues  to  make  libertines 
and  guzzlers  of  Christian  priests.  But  it  is 
said  that  for  some  few  centuries  experiments 
in  —  in  Psychical  Research,  let  us  say  —  have 
been  going  on  in  that  old  temple  of  Tzin  Piaou, 
with  results  that  are  not  always  reassuring  to 
a  lay  beholder.  I  was  in  too  careless  a  mood 
to  care  for  that,  that  morning,  and  the  porter 
let  me  pass,  barbarian  that  I  was,  and  I  crossed 
the  great  courtyard  and  came  to  a  little  cell 
built  in  the  thickness  of  the  walls. 


Prologue  5 

Inside  the  cell  I  saw  an  old,  old  man,  a 
priest,  though  but  a  heathen  one,  half  recli 
ning  on  a  hollowed  slab  of  stone. 

He  was  a  very  gaunt  old  man,  but  a  very 
tall  and  strong  one,  and  his  face  was  like  a 
mask  of  yellow  parchment,  seamed  with  a  mul 
titude  of  tiny  wrinkles,  and  his  eyes  were  two 
slits  set  slantwise  in  it.  But  as  he  heard  my 
step  and  looked  up,  they  widened,  and  the 
spark  of  a  smile  glimmered  in  them. 

"It  is  you  again,  my  son?"  said  that  old 
heathen  priest  to  me  in  greeting,  though  I  did 
not  remember  having  seen  him  before  that 
day.  "  What  is  it  now?  " 

Suddenly  I  knew  why  I  had  come.  "My 
father,"  I  said,  though  he  was  but  a  heathen, 
"  I  want  to  see  Life  through  your  eyes." 

He  looked  into  me,  and  through  me,  and  be 
yond  me  into  vacancy,  and  as  he  looked  the 
spark  of  laughter  in  his  eyes  danced,  and  flick 
ered  up  into  a  tiny  fire.  "  You  are  older  now" 
said  he.  "  Sit  down.  I  will  tell  you  first  of 
the  Game  of  the  Little  Gods,  and  then  you 
shall  see  Life  through  my  eyes." 

"  The  Little  Gods?  "  I  asked,  squatting  on 
the  floor.  It  was  the  only  seat  he  had  to  offer 
me. 


6  The  Little  Gods 

"  The  Great  God,"  my  heathen  priest  ex 
plained,  unheeding  me  and  smiling  into  va- 
cancy,  "  the  Great  God  created  us  men  in  his 
own  image  —  and  soon  found  us,  as  objects 
of  His  constant  contemplation,  distinctly  weari 
some.  If  He  could  have  laughed,  it  would  not 
have  mattered  much,  but  Amusement  is  be 
neath  the  ken  of  a  Great  God.  Therefore  our 
inconsistencies,  our  pettinesses,  our  hopeless 
contradictions,  quickly  wearied  Him,  as  they 
would  us  if  we  had  to  take  them  seriously, 
forever.  And  so,"  drawled  my  heathen  tutor, 
"  the  Great  God,  at  last,  in  self-defense,  created 
some  Little  Gods  to  take  charge  of  the  every 
day  affairs  of  men.  So  far  as  they  are  Gods, 
of  course,  these  Little  Gods  are  Eternal  and 
Impartial,  far  raised  above  Love  and  Aversion, 
Pity  and  Scorn,  Admiration  and  Derision,  and 
all  our  other  small  emotions.  To  them  all 
things  are  equal.  But  so  far  as  they  are  Little, 
and  not  Great,  they  are  capable  of  Amuse 
ment.  And  so,"  said  he,  "  those  lucky  Little 
Gods  while  away  Eternity  by  playing  games, 
wherein  we  men  are  counters.  But  we  men 
too,"  he  added,  smiling  through  me  into  va 
cancy,  "  if  we  are  wise,  can  gain  amusement  by 
looking  on  at  the  games  we're  part  of." 


Prologue  7 

"  I,"  said  I,  "  have  never  noticed  anything 
which  looked  like  games  —  " 

"No?"  he  said,  half  mockingly.  "You 
never  watched  a  strong  man  strive  his  utmost 
and  grasp  at  last  what  he  strove  for,  a  hand 
ful  of  ashes  and  dry  leaves?  Never  saw  a 
woman  love  with  all  her  heart,  till  she  broke 
it,  loving?  Never  saw  Tragedy  or  Comedy  or 
Farce  wherein  the  players  were  not  actors? 
Have  all  Life's  contradictions  —  " 

"  But  they've  always  taught  me,"  I  objected, 
"  that  in  those  seeming  contradictions,  an  in 
scrutable  Wisdom  was  working  for  the  ulti 
mate  good  of  those  —  " 

"  My  son,"  said  my  old  heathen  priest, 
stretching  his  old  legs  out  on  his  stony  slab, 
"  go  and  see  for  yourself.  This  is  the  hour 
when  I  take  one  of  my  naps.  See  for  your 
self." 


CHAPTER   I 

PAGAN 

I  FOUND  myself  "  up  the  railroad,"  as  we 
used  to  say,  in  a  well-remembered  town.  It 
had  not  changed  since  I  saw  it  last.  The  rail 
road  still  ran  through  it,  straight  as  a  pencil- 
stroke  ruled  across  the  flat  lands,  and  the  rails, 
on  their  embankment,  shimmered  in  the  sun 
like  two  unending  bars  of  white-hot  metal. 
The  cart  road  still  wallowed  into  it,  and  out 
of  it,  for  the  town  is  set  on  an  island  in  the 
marshy  level  of  the  paddies.  The  crazy  huts 
of  nipa,  and  crazier,  decaying  houses,  still  stood 
thick  on  either  side  of  the  one  street. 

And  brown  women  in  skirts  of  gaudy  calico 
still  sat  under  the  shadow  of  wide  shutters,  dis 
pensing  such  goods  as  Poverty  can  buy,  while 
their  babies  and  their  pigs  rolled  comfortably 
together  in  the  dust.  The  shaggy  thatch  still 
rustled  in  the  sultry  breeze,  and  a  few  dejected 
palm-trees  clicked  their  branches  as  of  old. 
And,  very  far  away  across  the  waveless  green 


10  The  Little  Gods 

sea  of  the  half-grown  rice,  the  same  dark  and 
threatening  mountains  towered  into  the  clouds. 
It  was  all  unchanged.  The  merciless  sun 
struck  down  just  as  hotly.  The  very  smells 
were  smells  I  had  often  smelled  before. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  stir  of  excitement  in 
the  town.  The  women  crawled  from  the  litter 
of  their  wares.  The  men,  lighting  fresh  ciga 
rettes  from  the  remnants  of  their  old  ones, 
stood  up  to  gaze.  For  down  the  street  was 
coming,  with  the  curious  in-toeing  shuffle  of  a 
barefoot  mountaineer,  a  squat,  huge-muscled, 
naked  man. 

He  carried  a  long,  broad-bladed  spear  in  his 
right  hand,  and  a  head-axe  was  thrust  through 
his  belt,  and  at  his  back  a  bag,  swollen  as  if  it 
held  something  big  and  round,  bobbed  and  dan 
gled  heavily,  and  something  dripped  from  it 
slowly,  thickly,  in  the  dust.  The  man's  broad, 
sweat-streaked  face  was  all  agrin  with  excite 
ment  and  good-nature,  but  the  natives  of  the 
town  shrank  back  from  him  as  he  passed. 
"  Donde  'Mericanos  ?  "  he  kept  asking  eagerly. 

A  bystander  pointed  to  a  house,  one  a  little 
taller  than  the  others,  where  a  flag  of  dingy 
white,  barred  with  dingier  red  and  blue,  hung 
drooping,  and  a  group  of  tall,  lean,  sun- 


Fagan  11 

bronzed  men  dressed  in  frayed  shirts  of  blue 
flannel,  and  breeches  of  stained  and  faded 
khaki,  and  battered  campaign  hats,  were  loung 
ing-  in  the  dusty  shade.  The  bystander  pointed 
to  them,  and  the  naked  man,  his  face  stretching 
in  a  wider  grin,  broke  into  a  clumsy  trot  and 
ran  to  them. 

"  Me  got,"  he  said,  and  pulled  the  heavy, 
bobbing  bag  from  his  shoulders,  and  thrust  it 
at  them.  They  fell  back  hastily.  "  It's  some 
thing,  all  right,"  said  one  of  them,  judicially. 
"  Something  plenty  dead.  Sergeant,"  he  called, 
"  I  reckon  it's  your  deal.  Here's  an  Igaroot 
with  another  dead-head  lookin'  for  you." 
And  the  others  laughed. 

At  that  an  oldish  man  with  a  long,  droop 
ing,  gray  moustache,  and  gray  eyes  that  were 
bright  below  their  sun-burned  lids,  stepped 
from  the  door.  The  naked  man  cried  out 
again,  "  Me  got,"  and  held  out  his  dripping 
bag.  And  the  saturnine  old  sergeant  fell  back, 
as  the  men  had  done. 

"  You  open  it,  Johnnie,"  he  commanded. 
"  It's  too  dead  for  me.  Patay,  sake?  Me  no 
likum  thataway.  Icao  abierta." 

So  the  man  undid  the  string  that  bound  his 
bag,  and  opened  it,  and  the  sergeant  took  one 


12  The  Little  Gods 

peep  inside.  "  It's  a  big  American  nigger,  all 
right,"  he  announced.  "  And  he's  sure  dead. 
It  might  be  him.  Better  call  the  Captain  over 
here,  some  one;  I  don't  reckon  he  wants  that 
in  his  quarters.  Where  you  catch  him,  horn- 
bre?" 

The  little  man  jerked  his  chin  over  his 
shoulder  at  those  distant  mountains.  "  You 
buy  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  You'll  get  the  reward  all  right,  if  it's  him," 
said  the  sergeant  reassuringly.  "  But  you'll 
have  to  wait  till  it's  identified.  There've  been 
a  lot  of  duplicates  brought  in,  sdbe." 

Presently  other  men  in  khaki  and  flannel, 
who  in  spite  of  their  undress  showed,  some 
how,  as  officers,  came  down  the  street,  and 
they,  and  the  sergeant,  and  the  man  with  the 
bag,  went  into  the  house. 

After  a  long  wait,  an  orderly  came  out,  pale 
and  shaken,  and  turned  toward  the  military 
telegraph  station.  "  It's  him,"  he  said  briefly, 
to  his  waiting  fellows.  "  That  Contract  Den 
tist  in  there  knowed  him  by  his  teeth.  God! 
I'm  plumb  glad  I  ain't  no  kind  of  medico." 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  silently,  for 
a  long  minute.  The  spirit  of  jesting  seemed 
to  have  left  them.  The  judicial  one  spoke  first. 


Fagan  13 

"  Well,  he  got  his  good  and  hard  at  last,"  said 
he.  "  But  he  sure  got  a  run  for  his  money." 

Then  I  understood  what  it  was  all  about.  I 
wrote  of  that  thing  in  the  bag  once,  not  know 
ing  it  then  for  a  pawn  in  the  Game  of  the  Lit 
tle  Gods.  There  was  a  time  when  men  called 
it  Fagan. 

While  Fagan  was  still  a  kinky-haired  young 
ster,  clad  only  in  the  traditional  shirt,  a  ques 
tion  forced  itself  on  his  attention.  "  Why  ain't 
I  got  a  pappy  ?  "  he  asked  his  mother,  and  the 
great,  deep-bosomed  woman  laughed  the  deep, 
melodious  laugh  of  her  race. 

"  Lawszee,  honey,  I  raickon  you  has,"  she 
replied.  "  Mos'  chillen  has." 

"  Who  is  my  pappy?  "  the  child  persisted. 

The  woman  laughed  again.  "  Lawszee, 
chile,  how  you  spaik  me  to  'maimber  that? 
I'se  got  other  things  to  'maimber,  I  raickon." 

We  couldn't  expect  much  of  a  Fagan,  born 
of  that  race  and  class,  and  he  learned  not  to 
expect  much  of  us.  A  bit  of  food,  a  bit  of 
clothing,  and  a  chance  to  roll  around  on  the 
levee  with  the  other  pickaninnies,  and  bask  in 
the  sunshine  and  sniff  the  sweety-sour  smells 
from  the  sugar-ships,  sufficed  him.  For  many 
years  these  pleasures  were  his  for  the  taking. 


14  The  Little  Gods 

And  as  he  grew  older  they  still  sufficed,  with 
the  addition  of  a  little  cheap  tobacco  and 
cheaper  gin,  and  he  found  that  a  modicum  of 
labor  and  a  care  never  to  offend  one  of  the 
heaven-born  white  race  would  procure  them. 
The  labor  was  easy,  for  the  son  of  the  deep- 
bosomed,  supple-limbed  woman  had  grown,  as 
the  rank,  free  growth  of  a  swamp  shoots  up, 
into  a  great,  broad,  graceful  man  to  whom 
the  toil  of  others  was  mere  play.  And  he  was 
of  a  nature  so  easy-going  and  joyous  and  child 
ishly  obliging  that  the  heaven-born  pointed  him 
out  with  approval  as  "  a  nigger  like  we  had 
before  the  war." 

He  might  have  lived  on  thus  indefinitely, 
but  one  day,  over  a  lazy  roll  of  the  dice,  an 
other  black  man  took  advantage  of  his  known 
good  nature.  And  Fagan,  the  kindly,  felt  a 
sudden,  blinding  impulse  to  strike.  The  huge 
black  fist  shot  out  like  lightning  under  the  im 
pulse  of  the  supple,  writhing  muscles,  and  the 
other  man  dropped  with  a  broken  neck. 

Then  Fagan  came  to  the  Army,  and  the 
Army  received  him  with  joy.  The  surgeon's 
eye  glistened  with  an  artist's  fervor  as  he 
thumped  and  kneaded  the  great,  perfect  animal, 
and  a  wise  old  recruiting  sergeant  guided  the 


Fagan  15 

pen  for  him  to  sign  his  name.  Thus  he  was 
made  welcome  in  that  most  catholic  of  societies, 
which  cares  not  a  whit  for  your  past,  your 
present,  or  your  future,  so  long  as  you  have 
mind  and  body  sufficient  to  obey  orders. 

But  even  this  slight  requirement  was  much 
for  Fagan.  His  careless,  soapless,  buttonless 
existence  was  a  poor  training  for  the  rigid 
minutiae  of  military  life.  And  he  was  unfor 
tunate  in  his  immediate  commander.  Most  of 
the  officers  of  the  Fifty-fourth  were  of  the 
South,  able  to  deal  firmly  yet  kindly  with  the 
big  black  children  committed  to  their  charge. 
But  Sharpe  was  new  to  the  Army,  the  son  of 
a  small  tradesman  in  the  North,  and  had  an 
exalted  reverence  for  the  Regulations,  and  his 
own  rank.  So  when  he  saw  that  the  buttons 
of  Pagan's  blouse  were  uncleaned,  one  morn 
ing  at  guard-mounting,  he  did  not  announce 
the  fact  impersonally,  as  an  officer  should. 

And  Fagan,  in  serene  ignorance  of  any  law 
against  immediate  explanation,  replied  with 
boyish,  surprised  chuckle,  "  Lawszee,  Looten- 
ant,  I  raickon  I  plumb  forgot  them  buttons." 

"  That's  enough,"  snapped  the  officer.  "  Ser 
geant,  put  this  man  under  arrest." 

Fagan  followed  to  the  guard-house,  mildly 


16  The  Little  Gods 

expostulant.  "  He  suah'd  orter  give  me  a 
fairah  show,"  he  said  to  the  sergeant.  "  I 
was  jus'  a  gwine  to  tell  him.  I  didn't  mean 
no  hahm.  All  I  wanted  was  a  fayah  show." 

Thus  began  a  series  of  petty  persecutions. 
Fagan,  with  his  good  nature,  tried  his  best,  but 
the  Lieutenant  would  not  be  pleased.  He  was 
not  a  bad  sort  in  intent,  simply  a  common, 
weak,  official  bully.  Such  men  usually  resign 
early,  or  if  they  linger  on  in  the  service,  learn 
to  shun  getting  in  front  of  their  men  when 
there  is  firing. 

By  the  time  the  regiment  was  ordered  to  the 
Philippines  Pagan's  record  loomed  black  with 
five  trials.  But  the  campaigning  brought  re 
lief.  A  man  was  required  only  to  have  his 
rifle  in  good  condition,  and  be  on  hand  to  use 
it.  The  regiment  spent  weary  days,  dragging 
about  like  a  slow  snake  under  the  burning  sun, 
soaking  and  shivering  in  the  mists  of  evening, 
till  men  began  to  sicken.  But  not  Fagan.  His 
melodious  bellow  would  ring  triumphant  along 
the  lines  each  night,  "  Pse  been  wo'okin'  on  the 
ra'alroad,"  and  cheer  the  drooping  men,  till 
the  voices  of  the  company  wits  were  demand 
ing,  "  Who's  dat  ar  white  man  got  a  ra'al 
road?" 


"  All  I  wanted  was  a  fay  ah  show." 


[Page  15 


Fagan  17 

And  then,  one  day,  the  scouts  reported  that 
the  main  body  of  the  enemy  was  near,  that 
elusive  body  for  which  the  regiment  had  been 
groping  so  long.  After  a  little  the  snake  broke 
out  into  a  fan,  and  went  crawling  across  a 
muddy  rice-paddy  toward  a  cane-brake.  Then 
a  flight  of  strangely  drawling  insects  sang 
overhead,  and  as  always,  when  firing  is  wild 
and  high,  some  men  in  the  reserve,  'way  in  the 
rear,  lay  down  very  suddenly. 

The  merry  bugles  rattled,  and  the  fan  dis 
solved  into  a  thin  brown  line  of  men  who  ad 
vanced  swiftly  to  the  edge  of  the  brake,  firing 
as  they  went.  And  then,  all  at  once,  the  brake 
was  alive  with  dizzily  flashing  steel.  A  little 
brown  man  rose  in  front  of  Fagan,  and  a  flash 
darted  straight  at  his  head.  Instinctively  his 
muscles  reacted,  and  he  ducked  backward  like 
a  boxer.  So  the  bolo  missed  his  head,  but  the 
sharp  point,  tearing  downward,  ripped  through 
shirt  and  flesh  on  his  breast. 

Fagan  stared  stupidly  at  the  dripping  red 
edges  of  the  blue  cloth  till  the  sharp  tingle  of 
the  flesh  stirred  him.  As  before,  he  felt  a 
blinding  impulse  to  strike,  and  whirled  his 
heavy  rifle  in  one  hand,  as  a  boy  might  a  stick. 
He  looked  down  at  the  quivering,  moaning 


18  The  Little  Gods 

thing  before  him,  and  a  mad  joy  of  strength 
surged  over  him.  A  little  way  apart  a  strug 
gling  group  was  weaving  in  and  out  with  darts 
of  steel  and  quick  flashes  of  rifles,  and  hoarse 
gruntings  and  cursings.  He  ran  toward  it, 
swinging  his  broken  rifle  round  his  head. 
"  Give  'em  heyell,  boys,"  he  shouted.  "  Kill 
the  damn  niggers." 

From  that  day  he  was  called  Wild  Fagan, 
and  Fagan  the  Nigger-Killer,  and  as  the  cam 
paign  progressed,  his  renown  passed  beyond 
his  regiment.  "  Heard  about  that  wild  nigger 
in  the  Fifty-fourth  ?  "  asked  the  Cavalry,  bor 
rowing  a  pinch  of  Durham  and  a  pit  of  paper 
from  the  Mountain  Battery.  "  Don't  sabe 
fire  his  rifle.  Just  butts  in  and  swats  'em  with 
it,  like  he  was  wantin'  to  play  gollf."  The 
story  grew  till  the  Marines,  returning  from 
shore  service,  told  the  Fleet,  half-seriously,  of 
a  wild  regiment  come  straight  from  Africa, 
"  what  only  knew  how  to  fight  with  war- 
clubs."  And  jacky,  ever  ready  to  believe, 
swore  softly  in  admiration,  and  spat  over  the 
rail,  and  dreamed  of  having  a  little  go  with 
that  regiment,  some  night  in  Nagasaki,  when 
every  one  had  had  about  seven  drinks  all 
round. 


Pagan  Id 

Even  the  officers  began  to  boast.  "  Oh, 
you  mean  our  man  Fagan,"  the  Colonel  would 
say  to  guests  at  mess.  "  Yes,  he's  a  good  man. 
Expensive  —  a  rifle  lasts  him  about  a  day 
when  things  are  lively ; — but  efficient.  Yes, 
highly  efficient.  The  natives  are  beginning  to 
dodge  the  regiment.  Yes,  I'll  let  you  see  him 
after  dinner.  Finest  build  of  a  man  you  ever 
laid  eyes  on.  Like  a  cat,  you  know,  like  a  cat 
and  a  grizzly  rolled  into  one." 

And  Fagan  through  it  all  was  unchanged, 
good-natured,  childlike  as  ever.  He  was  even 
a  bit  ashamed  of  his  strength.  "  That  little 
scrap  down  by  the  bridge?  "  he  would  say  to 
a  group  of  admirers.  "  Oh,  that  all  wa'n't 
nothin'.  That  big  Fillypeeno?  Oh,  yes,  I  hit 
him.  Yes,  I  raickon  I  smashed  him  some," 
he  would  muse  with  his  slow  smile.  "  I  broke 
my  gun  on  him.  Anybody  got  any  tobacca? 
I  nevah  can  keep  no  tobacca." 

It  was  after  the  fighting  was  done  and  the 
regiment  went  into  stations  of  companies  in 
the  villages  that  the  change  began  to  come. 
The  men,  keyed  to  exertion  and  excitement, 
found  the  idleness  of  barrack  life  first  pleasant, 
then  irksome.  And  they  were  at  home  in  these 
sunny  islands,  far  more  at  home  than  ever  in 


20  The  Little  Gods 

the  States.  They  read  the  freedom  of  the  land 
in  the  burning  sky,  and  the  clicking  palms,  and 
the  lazy  air.  More  than  anywhere  else,  they 
read  it  in  the  dark,  admiring  eyes  of  the  brown, 
slim,  soft-moving  girls.  The  men  began  to  be 
absent  at  check  roll-call  at  Taps. 

Then  all  the  wisdom  and  tact  of  an  officer 
was  needed.  Too  great  easiness  meant  loss  of 
control,  harshness  meant  desertions.  For  a 
time  Lieutenant  Sharpe  did  very  well.  He 
overlooked  what  he  could,  and  was  unangered 
in  his  firmness  when  he  must  be  firm.  But 
nature  and  fixed  habit  overcame  him,  and 
Fagan  was  naturally  the  chief  sufferer,  for  the 
officer  had  grown  into  the  belief  that  Fagan 
was  the  probable  cause  of  every  misdemeanor 
in  the  company.  So  it  was  a  reprimand,  and 
then  another  sharper,  and  then  the  summary 
court  —  where  the  Lieutenant  was  prosecutor 
and  jury  and  judge  —  sentenced  Fagan  to  the 
loss  of  a  month's  pay  for  attempting  to  run 
the  guard  at  some  unearthly  hour  of  the  night. 
Within  a  week  he  repeated  the  offence,  and 
Lieutenant  Sharpe,  with  the  fear  of  God  and 
the  Regulations  in  his  heart,  and  wondrous 
small  understanding  in  his  head,  sentenced 
him  to  a  "  month  and  a  month."  A  month  of 


Fagan  21 

confinement  will  give  any  man  much  time  for 
reflection,  and  the  Lieutenant  hoped  it  might 
prove  salutary. 

Fagan  received  his  sentence  with  ominous 
lack  of  his  former  protestations,  and  went 
quietly  to  the  guard-house.  But  being  neither 
an  accomplished  thinker  nor  an  expert  in  moral 
theory,  he  did  not  reflect.  He  merely  sat  there 
and  brooded.  "  All  I'm  lookin'  for  is  jus'  a 
fayah  show,"  he  told  himself,  over  and  over 
again.  "  He  use  me  right,  an'  I'll  use  him 
right.  Ain't  I  the  bes'  fightin'  man  in  the 
regiment,  ain't  the  Kuhnel  done  said  so,  a 
whole  plainty  o'  times  ?  When  they's  fightin', 
I'll  be  there.  But  that  little  Lootenant  — 
Lawszee,  couldn'  I  smash  him  —  all  I  want  is 
jus'  a  straight  deal." 

Fagan  emerged  at  the  end  of  his  month  still 
a  child,  but  a  sullen  child  now,  moping  over  a 
bitter  sense  of  injustice.  "  I  ain'  nevah  gwine 
to  stay  in  theah  anothah  night,"  he  told  his 
friend  the  Sergeant.  "  All  I  want  is  a  fayah 
deal,  an'  I'll  use  ev'rybody  straight.  But  no 
one  ain't  gwine  to  keep  me  in  theah  again." 
The  Sergeant,  wise  as  most  old  soldiers,  made 
no  answer.  If  the  Lieutenant  and  Wild  Fa- 


22  The  Little  Gods 

gan  were  to  fight  it  out,  it  was  no  affair  of  the 
Sergeant's. 

But  Fagan,  over  the  drinks,  repeated  his 
ultimatum  to  other  men,  who  waited  joyously 
for  the  clash,  and  were  surprised  and  disap 
pointed  when  Fagan  went  quietly  to  the  guard 
house  once  again,  placed  there  to  await  the 
sitting  of  a  general  court  martial.  The  quiet 
ness  was  only  because  he  was  learning  to  plan. 
When  the  silence  of  midnight  came,  he  stole 
over  to  an  inner  window,  braced  a  shoulder 
and  a  knee,  and  the  rusted  bars  yielded  noise 
lessly.  He  crept  up-stairs  to  his  squad-room 
and  took  the  rifle  and  the  belt,  heavy  with  two 
hundred  rounds  of  ammunition,  from  the  hea"d 
of  his  bunk,  and  crept  as  silently  down.  He 
tried  to  steal  by  the  guard  at  the  gate,  but  the 
man  turned  and  leveled  his  rifle,  hardly  six 
feet  away. 

"  Halt!  Who  goes  theah?  "  he  challenged, 
with  the  mechanical  lilt  of  the  sentry. 

"  You  min'  you'  business,  Sam,  an'  I'll  ten' 
to  mine,"  Fagan  growled. 

But  the  man  persisted,  though  with  a  tremor 
in  his  voice.  "  Yo'  halt,  Fagan.  Ah've  got 
to  fin'  —  " 

Fagan  gripped  his  rifle  by  the  muzzle,  and 


Fagan  23 

stepped  swiftly  toward  the  leveled  one.  "  You 
git  out  o'  heah,  Sam,"  he  ordered.  "  Git,  or 
I'll  smash  you." 

The  sentry  dropped  his  rifle.  "  Ah  am* 
nevah  troubled  you  all,  Fagan,"  he  whined. 
"  Ah'm  a  frien'  o'  you  all's.  You  lait  me 
alone."  He  sank  to  his  knees.  "  You  lait  me 
alone.  Don'  you  touch  me,  don'  you  touch  —  " 
His  voice  rose  to  a  shriek,  but  he  was  talking 
to  empty  air.  Fagan  had  picked  up  the  extra 
rifle  and  slipped  away  toward  the  town. 

"  Ah  couldn'  he'ep  it,  sah.  He  done  come 
up  out  o'  the  dahk,  with  his  eyes  a  buhnin',  an' 
he  sa-ays,  '  Ah'll  maash  you,  Sam.'  Ah 
couldn'  he'ep  mase'ef.  Ah've  seen  him  maash 
these  yere  Fillypeenos."  Thus  the  sentry  to 
the  Lieutenant  next  morning,  with  heartfelt 
earnestness.  "  Ah  wouldn'  cared  if  he  was 
gwine  to  shoot,  but  he  comes  a  grinnin',  an' 
he  sa-ays,  '  Ah'll  maash  you,  Sam.'  That's 
what  he  sa-ays,  an'  he'd  a  done  it,"  he  ex 
plained  later,  to  a  group  of  sympathizing  men. 
"  Ah  don'  min'  gettin'  shot,  but  Ah  suah  don' 
wantah  git  maashed.  So  Ah  dropped  ma  rifle. 
Ah've  seen  him  maash  these  yere  Fillypeenos. 
He  ain'  no  man,  he's  a  plumb  bawn  devil,  tha's 
what  he  is,"  and  Sam  wiped  the  sweat  drops 


24  The  Little  Gods 

from  his  throat  with  the  back  of  his  big,  sha 
king  hand. 

Then  ensued  many  tentative  pushings  at  the 
bars,  to  prove  that  no  two  mere  men  could 
spring  them  back  into  position,  and  many  side 
long  glances  at  Pagan's  ownerless  cot  and  the 
chest  which  stood  beside  it,  closed  and  mys 
terious.  When  the  men  turned  in,  no  one 
objected  that  Sam  placed  a  lighted  candle  on 
it.  "  They  don'  come  roun'  wheah  it's  light," 
he  explained  vaguely  to  the  room,  and  every 
one  knew  what  "  they  "  meant.  Even  the  old 
Sergeant,  coming  through  at  roll-call,  appar 
ently  did  not  see  the  forbidden  light. 

And  now  the  United  States  Army  lapsed 
into  a  state  of  hysteria  which  often  amused 
and  puzzled  those  who  witnessed  it.  It  became 
haunted  by  a  big  black  man  who  mashed  peo 
ple  instead  of  shooting  them  decently.  There 
happened  to  be  a  recrudescence  of  fighting, 
and  the  Army  imputed  it  to  Fagan.  That 
stupid,  brooding,  grown-up  child  became  a 
tactician,  a  strategist,  a  second  De  Wet  of 
guerilla  warfare. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  report,"  wrote  young 
Shavetail  to  the  A.  G.  O.  —  through  proper 
channels  —  "a  sharp  engagement  wherein  the 


Fagan  25 

enemy  hindered  the  development  of  my  flank 
ing  movement  by  —  unusual  brilliancy  for  na 
tive  leaders  —  honor  to  suggest  —  deserter 
Fagan  rumored  to  be  in  vicinity." 

"  Scouts  report,"  wired  Major  Oakleaf, 
"  two  hours'  ride  southeast  of  camp,  huge 
negro.  Request  description  renegade  Fagan." 

"  We're  out  gunnin'  fer  that  big  buck  nigger 
answers  to  the  name  of  Fagan,"  remarked 
Mountain  Battery  to  Cavalry,  borrowing  back 
the  "  makings  "  and  a  match  to  boot.  "  He's 
seen  up  back  here  in  the  foot-hills  last 
night." 

"  Wire  through  this  mornin',"  jeered  Signal 
Corps,  overhearing,  "  reportin'  him  up  Caga- 
yan  way.  An'  yesterday  he  was  down  in  Ba- 
tangas.  He  sure  must  hike  light." 

"  Well,  he's  a  lively  nigger,  from  all  I 
hear,"  said  Cavalry  judicially.  "  Some  one'll 
likely  get  hurt  'fore  they  get  him." 

"  He'll  maybe  get  hurt  a  little  bit  himself, 
just  a  shade,  if  this  old  girl  falls  on  him," 
laughed  Mountain  Battery,  patting  the  nose  of 
the  vicious  little  gun  in  the  packsaddle.  "  Ho' 
still,  you  old  mule-horse,  you!  Think  I'll 
stand  for  you  kickin'  me?  " 

So  the  little  armies  marched  and  sweated, 


26  The  Little  Gods 

and  the  wires  carried  bulletins  to  every  little 
post :  "  Inform  troops  and  natives  —  renegade 
Fagan,  deserter  Fifty-fourth  —  very  big  black 
negro,  age  twenty-one,  large  bolo  scar  on 
breast  —  five  hundred  dollars,  gold,  alive  or 
dead." 

And  all  the  while  Fagan  was  living  quietly 
with  the  girl  who  had  been  the  chief  cause 
of  all  his  insubordination,  in  a  little  mountain 
village  not  fifty  miles  from  the  place  where 
his  ghost  first  rose  and  called  for  lighted  can 
dles. 

The  reports  of  his  evil  fame  brought  him  no 
joy.  "  Why  can't  they  let  us  alone,"  he  com 
plained  to  Patricia.  "  I  never  hurt  them,  and 
if  they  don't  trouble  us  we  won't  trouble  them. 
Eh,  Patsi  ?  "  and  he  swept  the  slender  girl  up 
to  his  shoulder. 

"  Pooh,"  cried  Patricia  disdainfully,  from 
her  height.  "  What  do  we  care  for  them ! 
You  will  kill  them  all,  won't  you  ? "  She 
pinched  the  great  supporting  arm  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  "  Hola,  there's  Enrique's  cock 
fighting  with  Juan's.  Let's  go  and  watch 
them."  And  as  they  walked  down  the  narrow 
grassy  street,  the  people  stepped  aside  with 
cheerful  smiles,  for  all  the  world  like  the  dusty 


Fagan  27 

pickaninnies  on  the  levee  when  one  of  the 
heaven-born  passes  by. 

For  a  long  time  Fagan  and  Patricia  lived  on 
in  the  village,  till  the  man  was  becoming  a 
myth.  A  dozen  enterprising  hunters  had 
brought  in  his  head,  and  the  papers  in  Manila 
had  ceased  to  give  circumstantial  accounts  of 
his  capture  even  when  news  was  short.  But 
at  last  an  American  prisoner  came  to  the  town, 
the  only  white  man  who  saw  Fagan  alive  after 
his  desertion.  By  a  strange  chance  he  was  an 
officer  of  the  Fifty-fourth,  and  Fagan  received 
him  with  sober  joy. 

"  I'se  right  glad  to  see  you,  Lootenant,"  he 
said.  "  I  raickoned  they'd  bring  you  up  heah, 
when  I  hea'd  you  was  done  capchuhed.  Th?y 
kind  brings  mos'  ev'ything  up  to  me,  these 
days." 

The  white  man  was  not  joyous,  though  un 
dismayed.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
me,  now  you've  got  me?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Don'  you  worry,  Lootenant,"  Fagan  an 
swered.  "  I  wouldn'  huht  you.  No,  sir,  you 
nevah  troubled  me.  You  jus'  set  down  an' 
have  a  smoke.  I'se  a  gwine  to  send  you  down, 
jus'  as  soon  as  I  can." 

They  sat  and  smoked  in  silence,  the  giant 


28  The  Little  Gods 

negro,  the  prisoner  in  his  draggled  uniform, 
the  little  brown  guards  with  their  naked  bobs. 
At  last  Pagan  said,  "  I  raickon  we  could  talk 
bettah  if  these  yere  guards  was  away.  You 
git,"  he  pointed  to  them.  "  Course  you 
give  you'  wohd,  Lootenant,  you  won't  try  to 
'scape." 

The  officer  nodded,  and  fell  to  watching  the 
great,  quiet,  unshapen  black  face.  It  roused 
his  curiosity  for  a  certain  non-offensive  air  of 
self-reliance  which  he  had  never  seen  in  a  black 
face  before.  "  Fagan,"  he  asked  suddenly, 
"  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Do  what,  Lootenant?  " 

"  Desert,  and  lead  the  natives  against  us, 
and  all  that." 

The  negro  clenched  his  great  fist.  "  This 
yere  fool  talk  makes  me  plumb  riled,"  he  said. 
"  I  am'  nevah  fought  the  'Mericans.  I'se  a 
'Merican  myse'f,  ain't  I?  An'  what  would  I 
want  to  go  yampin'  roun'  the  country  for, 
anyway  ?  I'se  got  all  I  want  right  heah,  chick 
ens,  an'  yams,  an'  a  good  dry  house,  an'  —  " 
He  reached  out  his  hand  and  grasped  Patricia's 
little  one,  and  they  smiled  at  each  other.  "  No, 
sir,  I  don'  want  no  moah  fightin'.  I'se  got  a 
good  home,  an'  I  goes  to  sleep  when  I  wants 


Fagan  29 

to,  an'  I  gits  up  when  I  wants  to,  an'  I  has 
clean  clo'es  ev'y  day.  You  tell  the  Kuhnel, 
Lootenant,  you  tell  him  Fagan  nevah  went  to 
huht  no  'Mericans,  an'  nevah  will,  less'n  they 
goes  to  huht  me  first.  You  believe  that,  don' 
you,  Lootenant?"  And  the  officer  gravely 
nodded  "  Yes." 

"  Bout  that  desertin',  now.  I'se  thought  a 
whole  lot  about  that,  an'  I  raickon  I  done  it 
jus'  because  I  had  to  have  mo'  room.  I'se 
some  big,  I  raickon  —  "  he  let  his  eyes  travel 
slowly  down  his  body  and  chuckled  —  "  seems 
like  I  has  to  have  a  whole  plainty  o'  room. 
Seems  like  they  wahn't  room  fo'  me  an'  Loo 
tenant  Sha'ap  in  one  ahmy.  No,  sir.  An' 
then,  I  dunno,  Lootenant,  maybe  you  nevah 
felt  how  a  woman  can  make  you  'shamed  of 
youse'f?  This  Patricia  lady,  maybe  she  don' 
seem  like  much  to  you,  but  she's  a  heap  to  me 
—  yes,  sir,  —  an'  she  kep'  sayin',  '  What  for 
you  go  calabozo,  Fagan?  Kill  the  little  pig 
of  a  teniente,'  she  says.  '  Kill  ev'rybody. 
You'se  big  enough.'  An'  then  she  laughs  at 
me.  '  Is  you  'f raid,  big  man  ?  '  she  says. 
'  Lend  me  youah  revolvah,  then.  I'se  little, 
but  I  ain't  afraid.'  She  jus'  made  me  plumb 
scairt  of  myse'f,  an'  we  come  away,  'cause 


30  The  Little  Gods 

Patsi  an'  me  needed  more  room  'n  what  Loo- 
tenant  Sha'ap  could  give  us.  'Pears  like  you 
couldn'  understan'  it,  but  that's  the  way  it 
was,  I  raickon.  I  jus'  had  to  desert  or  huht 
somebody  bad." 

He  stopped,  and  the  woman  began  to  speak 
to  him.  The  white  man  watched  her,  and  a 
great  light  burst  upon  him.  She  was  glorious, 
this  slim,  soft  brown  thing  with  the  dusky  hair 
and  the  straight,  slender  neck,  and  — "  I'se 
little,  but  I  ain't  afraid."  Ages  of  civilization 
dropped  from  the  man  as  he  gazed,  and  with 
a  graceless  pity  he  compared  the  pale  fettered 
women  he  had  known  with  this  free,  wild,  per 
fect  thing  whose  feeling  was  her  life.  She  was 
talking  with  her  tongue  and  eyes  and  hands, 
and  Fagan  answered  a  few  words  and  laughed, 
and  she  laughed,  too,  a  sound  as  natural  and 
sweet  as  the  ripple  of  a  stream,  and  then  her 
great  eyes  lighted  with  earnestness  as  she  went 
on.  The  Lieutenant  felt  a  pang  of  something 
almost  jealousy.  He  could  never  bring  fire 
to  those  eyes,  he  was  not  a  man  to  her,  only 
a  thing,  not  to  be  compared  with  that  black 
giant. 

Fagan  turned  to  him  with  an  amused 
chuckle.  "  She's  full  o'  ginger,"  he  said. 


Fagan  31 

"  I  raickon  it's  lucky  I  was  heah  when  you 
come.  She's  jus'  been  askin'  when  I  was 
goin'  to  kill  you.  '  You  must,'  she  says,  '  or 
else  he'll  lead  soldiers  up  heah.'  That's  all 
right,  Lootenant,"  he  said,  as  the  officer 
moved  uneasily.  "  That's  you'  duty,  an'  it's 
all  right,  only  she  don'  understand  that.  '  Le's 
kill  him  now,'  she  says.  '  You  keep  a  talkin' 
with  him,  an'  I'll  put  the  knife  into  him  from 
behin'.  It  won'  be  no  trouble  at  all.'  Laws- 
zee,"  he  chuckled  admiringly,  "  I  raickon  she'd 
a  done  it,  too.  She's  got  moah  ginger !  " 

The  Lieutenant  smiled  with  him,  but  he 
soon  rose,  unobtrusively,  and  seated  himself 
with  his  back  to  the  solid  corner-post  of  the 
house.  Patricia  watched  the  manoeuvre  with 
unfathomable  eyes,  and  the  men  burst  into 
laughter;  then  she  hung  her  head  like  a  child 
caught  in  some  mischief.  The  gesture  was 
adorable,  and  suddenly  sadness  stifled  the 
white  man's  laughter. 

"  I'm  sorry  about  reporting  your  presence 
here,"  he  said.  "  I  understand,  I  think,  and 
I  believe  you  don't  want  to  make  trouble, 
but  —  " 

"  Don'  you  worry  about  that,"  Fagan  broke 
in.  "  I'se  a  gwine  to  send  you  down  to  the 


32  The  Little  Gods 

ra'alroad  this  afternoon.  An'  now  Patsi's 
goin'  to  get  you  some  dinner." 

"  Fagan,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  yet  more 
earnestly,  while  his  guard  waited  for  him  to 
mount,  "  I'm  right  sorry  about  this.  But  — 
why  don't  you  come  down  with  me  now  and 
surrender?"  he  asked  impulsively.  "That 
will  help,  and  I  can  explain  some  things  to 
the  court,  and  you'll  only  get  six  months  or 
so,  for  desertion.  Only  six  months,  and  then 
—  you  can  come  back  to  Patricia,"  he  ended 
almost  enviously. 

The  negro  seemed  to  swell  before  the  white 
man's  astonished  eyes.  "  I'se  sorry,  too.  It's 
been  mighty  pleasant,  livin'  heah,"  he  said 
simply.  "  An'  thank  you  fer  askin'  me  to 
come  down.  I  know  you  means  it  straight. 
But  you  can't  see  it  like  I  do.  Down  theah 
I'se  a  niggah  soldier.  Up  heah  I'se  —  No 
body  ain't  got  any  right  to  try  me,"  he  burst 
out.  "  I  nevah  troubled  them.  You  tell  the 
Kuhnel  that,  I  want  he  should  understan'.  I 
don'  want  to  huht  no  one,  but  I'se  nevah  gwine 
into  no  gahd-house  again.  Good-by,  Looten- 
ant,  an*  luck.  I  don'  raickon  we  all'll  evah 
meet  up  again." 

So  Fagan  and  Patricia  must  needs  leave  the 


Fagan  33 

snug  little  house  at  the  end  of  the  sleepy,  grass- 
grown  street,  and  go  out  on  the  High  Trail, 
the  unknown  of  the  people  of  the  plains,  a 
broad  highway  to  things  with  hoofs  and  claws 
and  wings,  and  to  men  little  less  wild  than 
they,  the  men  of  the  hills.  At  times  the  brown 
thread  of  the  Trail  was  twined  amid  the  giant 
roots  of  trees,  and  they  wandered  in  a  cool 
twilight,  alone  with  the  long  creepers  and  the 
ferns  and  the  bright  birds  which  played  about 
some  opening  in  the  matted  roof,  far  above 
their  heads,  where  the  sun  dropped  through 
for  a  brief  hour.  Sometimes  it  clung  to  the 
massive  walls  of  a  canon,  where  a  river  boiled 
so  far  below  that  the  sound  of  its  torment  came 
to  their  ears  like  the  babble  of  a  brook.  Some 
times  it  shot  upward  to  the  realm  of  the  clouds, 
and  from  the  bare,  grassy  heights  they  peered 
out  through  shifting  mist  wreaths  over  all  the 
cities  and  fields  of  the  plains  to  the  blue  hint 
of  the  distant  sea. 

Fagan  and  Patricia  followed  the  Trail  stead 
ily  but  leisurely,  day  after  day.  There  was  no 
call  for  haste,  no  white  pursuer  knew  that 
road.  So  they  laughed  and  played,  and  lay 
for  hours  beside  some  cool  spring,  basking  in 
the  warm  sunshine  and  the  thin,  sharp  air, 


34  The  Little  Gods 

and  camped  at  night  in  little  valleys  under  a 
pall  of  cloud.  Once  Fagan  shot  a  deer,  and 
they  delayed  for  days,  drying  the  meat  over 
pungent  wood-smoke.  But  as  their  muscles 
hardened  to  the  Trail,  they  insensibly  made 
greater  progress,  in  spite  of  their  dallying. 

Two  weeks  brought  them  to  the  land  of  the 
Unknown,  had  they  but  known  it.  The  moun 
tains  were  higher  and  wilder,  the  cloud-caps 
more  frequent.  Often  the  forest  on  some  huge 
hill,  towering  black  above  the  Trail,  was  thin 
and  pointed  at  the  top,  as  if  it  had  been  torn, 
and  there,  unseen  of  them,  was  a  village 
perched  high  on  the  trunks  of  trees,  whence 
keen-eyed  men  watched  their  progress.  But 
they  were  children  of  the  plains  and  could  not 
know,  so  they  walked  undismayed.  And  the 
keen-eyed  men  walked  with  them,  unseen, 
frisking  along  above  them  over  ground  where 
others  would  have  crept  —  short,  huge-limbed 
men,  whose  stiff  black  hair  flowed  over  their 
shoulders,  and  was  tied  out  of  their  eyes  with 
fillets,  men  who  squatted  naked  in  the  mists 
of  evening  and  did  not  shiver,  men  who 
brought  their  sweethearts  hideous  dowries  of 
human  heads.  They  hung  about  the  Trail, 
watching  these  strange  creatures  who  walked 


Ftifjan  and  Patricia. 


[Page  33 


Fagan  35 

openly  and  undismayed  in  the  land  of  Fear. 
Often,  when  the  camp-fire  was  lighted,  they 
stole  up  with  their  muscles  twitching  like  a 
cat's  before  she  springs,  and  then  halted  as  a 
great  voice  rang  over  the  forest  —  "  I'se  been 
wo'okin'  on  the  ra'alroad  "  —  and  they  clawed 
their  way  up  the  slopes  to  the  long-legged  vil 
lages,  and  took  counsel  together  in  the  queer 
fire-shadows. 

One  evening  as  they  camped,  Patricia  missed 
a  little  bundle  of  venison  and  strolled  back 
along  the  Trail  to  look  for  it.  Fagan  kindled 
the  fire  and  then  strolled  back,  too.  "  Hoy, 
Patsi,"  he  called.  The  forest  was  silent.  He 
turned  a  bend  in  the  Trail,  and  there  —  Fagan 
gazed  at  it  stupidly.  Then  the  blind  impulse 
of  wrath  swept  over  him  again.  But  there 
was  naught  to  strike.  The  long  shadows  of 
the  trees  lay  across  the  Trail,  the  creepers 
swayed  lazily  in  the  evening  breeze;  far  up, 
a  crow  called  petulantly  to  her  belated  mate. 
Fagan  swung  his  arm  helplessly  at  the  forest. 

"  Come  out,"  he  moaned,  "  come  out  wheah 
I  can  see  you.  Come  out,  you  cowards,  you 
sneakin'  dogs  that  kills  women  from  behind. 
I'se  not  afraid  of  you.  Oh,  I'll  mash  you! 
Come ! "  With  a  soft  chug,  a  lance  stuck 


36  The  Little  Gods 

quivering  in  the  tree  beside  him.  Otherwise 
all  was  silent;  even  the  crow  had  ceased  to 
scold.  He  looked  down.  A  darker  shadow 
was  stealing  among  the  lengthening  ones  on 
the  Trail.  The  spirit  of  the  forest  gripped 
Fagan  with  an  icy  hand,  the  spirit  of  Dread. 
He  ran  blindly  to  the  fire,  seized  his  rifle,  and 
took  up  the  Trail  alone. 

For  three  days  and  nights  he  hurried  on. 
The  empty  pain  of  his  stomach,  the  dizzying, 
numbing  lack  of  sleep,  could  not  hold  him 
against  the  dread  of  his  unseen  escort.  It  gave 
little  sign,  simply  the  rustling  of  a  fern  now 
and  then,  the  swaying  of  one  creeper  when 
others  were  still,  but  he  felt  its  presence  and 
staggered  on.  On  the  evening  of  the  third 
day,  he  stepped  suddenly  from  the  forest  into 
a  little  theatre  among  the  hills.  A  clear  brook 
bubbled  over  golden  gravel;  the  turf  beneath 
a  great  solitary  tree  was  thick  and  soft.  Wild 
cocks  in  the  wood  were  crowing  their  families 
to  roost. 

Everything  was  quiet  and  peaceful,  and 
Fagan,  as  he  gazed,  became  peaceful  and  quiet, 
too.  He  flung  himself  on  the  soft  turf,  and 
drank  his  fill  from  the  little  brook.  As  always, 
when  he  sought  to  rest,  the  forest  became 


Fagan  37 

vague  with  life.  A  covey  of  jungle-fowl, 
flushed  by  a  sudden  fright,  whirred  across  the 
opening.  A  stone  rolled  somewhere  close  at 
hand,  dislodged  by  a  purposely  careless  foot. 
But  this  time  Fagan  merely  grinned,  and  shook 
off  his  clinging  cartridge-belt.  "  You  can' 
bluff  me  no  moah,"  he  said  to  the  forest,  a 
trick  he  had  learned  of  late.  A  fern  swayed 
not  a  dozen  yards  away,  and  he  clicked  a  car 
tridge  into  his  Krag  and  fired.  "  You  git 
out,"  he  chuckled.  "  I'se  a  gittin'  tired  of 
you'  company." 

When  he  was  rested  a  little,  he  kindled  a 
fire  and  toasted  a  bit  of  venison.  Then  he  lay 
back  lazily  and  twisted  his  last  bit  of  tobacco 
into  a  cigarette.  Between  puffs  he  bellowed 
his  evening  song,  and  the  rude  melody  took 
on  the  sweetness  of  a  ballad.  "  Don'  you  heah 
the  bugle  callin'  ?  "  Fagan  sang,  and  tossed 
the  butt  of  the  cigarette  into  the  fire.  It  was 
quite  dark  now  in  the  hollow,  and  he  sat  in 
a  little  circle  of  dancing  light.  He  looked  at 
the  wall  of  blackness  with  quiet,  unfrightened 
eyes  that  presently  began  to  close  with  the 
pressure  of  a  mighty  drowsiness. 

"  I'se  po'owful  sleepy  now,"  he  announced 
at  length,  "  an'  I'se  a  gwine  to  bed.  I  was 


38  The  Little  Gods 

hopin'  to  set  up  an'  meet  some  of  you  all,  but 
I  can't  do  it.  When  you  all  wants  me,  you 
all  can  wake  me  up."  The  fire  flickered,  and 
he  pillowed  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  watched 
the  dance  of  the  shadows  grow  shorter. 
"  Lawszee,"  he  murmured,  drowsily,  as  the 
great  numbness  of  sleep  overcame  him,  "  I 
raickon  Patricia'd  think  I  was  scairt  again. 
She'd  a  sat  up  an'  waited  foh  them,  but  I  can't. 
That  little  girl  did  have  the  po'owf'les'  lot  o' 
ginger  in  her."  He  threw  his  great  arm  pro- 
tectingly  over  the  empty  ground  beside  him. 
"  Good  night,  Patsi,"  he  murmured. 

In  that  well-remembered  town  among  the 
paddies,  a  squat  and  naked  man,  huge-muscled, 
came  out  of  the  door  of  the  quarters.  In  his 
hand  he  carried  a  broad-bladed  spear.  A 
head-axe,  bright  as  only  speckless  steel  can  be 
in  sunlight,  flashed  in  his  girdle.  And  at  his 
back  a  bag,  plumply  round,  bobbed  heavily, 
and  as  it  bobbed  it  gave  out  a  dull  jingle,  as 
of  coined  metal. 

"  Got  his  money,  all  right,"  said  one  of  the 
group  that  watched  him. 

The  savage  halted,  and  grinned  widely  at 
each  in  turn.  "  Me  got,"  he  announced 


Fagan  30 

proudly.  "  Mucho  diner o.  Mucho  mucho  di- 
nero.  Me  got."  He  could  scarcely  contain 
his  joy. 

One  of  the  watchers  growled.  "  I'm  not  in 
favior,"  said  he,  "  of  payin'  gu-gus  for  killin' 
white  men,  no  matter  whether  they're  white 
or  black.  It's  a  catchin'  habit."  It  was  the 
judicial  soldier.  He  swung  his  lean  bulk 
toward  the  grinning  little  man.  "  Now  you've 
got  it,"  he  commanded,  "  git !  " 

The  savage,  half-comprehending,  turned  and 
passed  down  the  path  they  opened  for  him, 
and  down  the  sun-beaten,  dusty  street,  where 
the  silent  people  fell  away  before  him  as  if  he 
carried  pestilence.  And  so  they  saw  the  last 
of  him,  making  for  those  distant,  cloud-hung 
hills  of  his,  moving  clumsily  but  swiftly  across 
the  paddies  at  his  shuffling  trot,  while  the  price 
of  a  man's  rebellion  bobbed,  and  jingled  dully 
at  his  back. 


CHAPTER    II 

GOD'S    LITTLE   DEVILS 

I  WAS  back  in  that  ancient  temple  of  Tzin 
Piaou.  My  old  heathen  priest,  half  reclining 
on  his  hollowed  slab  of  stone,  was  looking  at 
me  with  a  spark  of  laughter  in  his  keen  old 
eyes. 

"  Have  you  seen  for  yourself?  "  he  asked. 

I  nodded. 

"  And  how,"  he  asked  me,  "  do  you  like 
to  look  at  the  Games  of  the  Little  Gods  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  I  angrily,  "  that  they  are 
Little  Devils.  That  black  man  was  a  man.  If 
they  had  given  him  half  a  chance  —  ' 

"  Remember,"  said  my  heathen  friend,  quite 
calmly,  "  that  I  do  not  know  your  black  man, 
or  what  they  did  to  him.  Something  un 
pleasant,  it  appears.  It  does  not  matter.  It 
is  in  the  Game.  But  you  think  my  Little  Gods 
are  Little  Devils?" 

"  I  do,"  I  said. 


God's  Little  Devils  41 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  my  heathen  priest,  smi 
ling  through  me  into  vacancy,  "  what  he  would 
think  of  Little  Devils  if  he  saw  them."  Sud 
denly  his  eyes  glinted  into  mine.  He  made 
a  little  imperative  gesture  with  his  hand.  "  Go 
and  see,"  he  said.  "  This  is  the  hour  when  I 
take  another  nap.  And  would  you  mind,"  he 
added,  "  as  you're  going  out,  just  asking  the 
porter  to  bring  a  jug  of  water?  " 

That  night,  when  rice  was  eaten  and  the  cir 
cle  of  darkness  had  shut  down  about  our  fire, 
Fermin  Majusay,  the  private  of  Native  Scouts 
who  was  my  escort  on  the  mountain,  stretched 
out  on  his  slim  stomach  and  gazed  into  the 
hypnotic  flames. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  my  teniente," 
he  said  suddenly,  "  my  lieutenant  who  is  dead 
six  months.  He  was  a  devil,  that  man. 
Listen!  You  have  sat  in  the  Cafe  Puerta  del 
Sol  and  watched  the  two  old  Spaniards  who 
play  forever  the  game  called  chess?  Well, 
when  the  little  man  of  Don  Antonio  gets  in 
front  of  the  little  horse  of  Don  Jose,  does  Don 
Jose  say,  '  Bad  little  man,  go  to  another  little 
square  '  ?  No,  he  says  '  Muertof '  — '  Dead! ' 
—  and  takes  the  little  man  away.  That  is  the 


42  The  Little  Gods 

game,  to  take  all  the  little  men  off  the  board, 
and  it  is  just  the  same  with  fighting.  But  all 
the  white  men  I  have  seen,  except  my  teniente, 
were  afraid  of  the  end.  My  teniente  always 
laughed  when  the  end  came.  He  was  born  to 
be  a  soldier,  like  me. 

"  I  remember  how  he  laughed  at  Don  Au- 
gusto.  We  were  in  a  very  bad  province  then. 
All  the  provinces  are  a  little  bad ;  that  is  why 
they  sent  me  to  take  care  of  you,  because  the 
mountains  are  not  safe  for  a  white  man.  But 
that  was  an  island  in  the  south,  and  it  was  very 
bad.  All  the  middle  of  it  was  mountains  where 
ladrones  lived,  and  they  came  down  to  the 
coast  and  made  people  give  them  food  and 
money,  and  they  stole  carabaos  from  the  plan 
tations  and  killed  travelers,  and  sometimes 
they  burned  a  town  and  took  the  pretty  girls 
away. 

"  We  were  sent  there  to  catch  them.  It  was 
very  hard  work.  We  chased  them  in  the 
mountains  and  killed  some,  but  that  did  no 
good.  When  we  were  in  one  place  they  were 
somewhere  else,  and  when  a  man  guided  us 
in  a  little  while  he  was  dead.  We  knew  what 
was  the  matter.  It  is  always  the  same.  The 
ladrones  are  in  the  mountains,  but  some  man 


God's  Little  Devils  43 

in  the  towns  is  their  leader,  and  he  gets  so 
rich  and  strong  that  every  one  is  afraid  of 
him.  In  that  island  it  was  a  planter  named 
Augusto  de  los  Reyes.  Three  times  my  lieu 
tenant  arrested  Augusto  de  los  Reyes  and  sent 
him  down  to  San  Pablo;  and  every  time  the 
judge  said  there  was  no  proof  and  he  came 
back,  and  in  a  little  while  all  the  witnesses 
against  him  were  dead.  And  the  ladrones  in 
the  mountains  always  knew  when  we  were 
coming. 

"  If  my  teniente  had  been  like  other  white 
men,  he  would  have  given  up  then.  But  he 
arrested  Don  Augusto  once  more.  I  remem 
ber  the  morning  very  well.  I  was  orderly  that 
day,  and  we  were  in  the  guard-room  looking 
at  some  prisoners,  and  a  guard  came  in,  two 
in  front  and  two  behind,  with  this  Don  Au 
gusto.  He  was  a  big,  fat  Bisayan,  and  we  all 
looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  at  us,  and  smiled. 
Then  we  didn't  feel  very  good,  for  we  knew 
what  he'd  like  to  do  to  us. 

"  But  my  teniente  laughed  when  he  saw 
him.  He  stood  up  and  shook  hands  with  Don 
Augusto,  and  he  said :  e  Buenos  dlas,  Sefior 
Don  Augusto  de  los  Reyes.'  Like  that,  ma 
king  fun.  '  It  is  not  very  long  since  we  met,' 


44  The  Little  Gods 

he  said,  '  but  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again. 
I  trust  you  found  the  prison  at  San  Pablo 
pleasant  ? ' 

"  This  Don  Augusto  knew  how  to  play  the 
game,  too.  He  smiled  with  his  mouth  and 
said :  '  It  is  not  bad,  Sefior  Teniente.  But  it 
grows  tiresome  to  have  the  comedy  of  going 
there  repeated  so  often.  The  judge  gets  tired, 
too,  deciding  that  I  am  not  such  a  bad  man 
as  my  friend  the  teniente  would  have  him 
think.' 

"  My  teniente  laughed  again.  '  These 
judges ! '  he  said.  '  If  only  they  could  see  us 
as  we  are,  Sefior  Don  Augusto  de  los  Reyes. 
It  is  so  hard  to  make  them  understand.'  Then 
he  stopped  smiling,  and  talked  very  slow,  more 
as  if  he  talked  to  himself.  '  I  could  send  him 
down  to  San  Pablo  again,  and  I  could  say  to 
the  judge,  "  Sefior  Juez,  this  is  the  Sefior  Don 
Augusto  de  los  Reyes  whom  the  Swiss  Bobin 
accused  of  giving  information  to  the  enemy, 
so  that  he  lay  in  San  Pablo  jail  for  three  weeks, 
till  you  said  there  was  no  proof."  And  I  could 
say  to  the  judge :  "  Last  week  this  innocent 
gentleman  came  back  from  his  trial,  and  last 
Sunday,  as  the  Swiss  Bobin  rode  on  a  narrow 
trail,  four  men  attacked  him  and  cut  off  his 


God's  Little  Devils  45 

hand  as  he  drew  his  revolver,  and  then  killed 
him."  But  what  would  that  amount  to? ' 

"  '  Very  little,'  said  Don  Augusto. 

"  '  Nothing,'  said  my  teniente.  '  And  I 
could  tell  the  judge:  "That  Sunday  night 
men  came  to  the  house  of  the  late  Swiss  Bobin 
and  took  his  woman  away,  and  her  muchacha 
found  her  next  morning  staked  by  the  four 
hands  and  feet  to  an  ant-hill."  But  that  would 
be  no  charge  against  the  Senor  Don  Augusto 
de  los  Reyes.' 

" '  Precisely,'  said  Don  Augusto,  and  he 
smiled.  Oh,  he  was  a  big,  proud  man,  and  he 
knew  what  he  could  do  so  well  that  he  did  not 
pretend  not  to  know. 

"  '  Precisely,'  said  my  teniente.  '  And  I 
could  tell  the  judge :  "  The  two  weeks'  baby 
of  the  late  widow  of  the  late  Swiss  Bobin  died 
that  Monday  afternoon,  so  to-day  there  is  not 
a  soul  alive  of  the  family  of  the  man  who 
charged  an  innocent  gentleman  unjustly,  as 
you  yourself  decided,  Senor  Juez." 

"  Don  Augusto  smiled  and  was  going  to 
speak,  but  my  teniente  only  moved  his  hand 
and  went  on,  and  all  of  us  soldiers  in  the 
guard-room  held  our  breaths  and  listened,  for 
we  knew  that  he  spoke  the  truth.  *  We  could 


46  The  Little  Gods 

tell  the  judge :  "  The  four  men  who  killed  the 
man  and  the  woman  and  left  the  baby  to  starve 
live  on  the  plantation  of  the  prisoner  and  owe 
him  much  money."  But  what  does  that  prove? 
Even  if  we  tell  him  that  all  the  enemies  of  the 
Senor  Don  Augusto  de  los  Reyes  for  twenty 
years  have  gone  that  way,  and  that  no  one 
any  more  dares  to  be  a  witness  against  him  for 
fear  of  his  revenge,  the  judge  will  not  care 
about  that.  The  judge  wants  proof,  and  we 
have  no  proof.  No  matter  how  well  we  know 
each  other,  we  have  no  proof.  So  I  shall  not 
send  my  dear  friend  down  to  jail  again.  I  am 
tired  of  it,  too.' 

"  All  we  soldiers  looked  at  the  ground,  for 
we  thought  our  teniente  was  a  fool,  like  the 
judge,  and  would  let  Don  Augusto  go  again. 
And  Don  Augusto  looked  at  us  as  if  we  were 
dogs  —  I  wanted  to  give  him  my  bayonet  — 
and  he  smiled  and  said  :  '  I  thank  you  so  much, 
Teniente  mio,  for  sparing  me  another  of  the 
comedies.  It  is  better  for  every  one.  Adios, 
Senor.' 

"  Oh,  I  told  you  that  teniente  of  mine  was 
a  devil!  He  got  up  and  shook  the  hand  of 
Don  Augusto,  and  he  smiled  and  said :  '  Adios, 
Senor  Don  Augusto  de  los  Reyes.  We  shall 


^ 

^ 


God's  Little  Devils  47 

not  meet  again  for  some  time,  I  think.  I  am 
getting  very  tired  of  it  myself.  But  I  will  give 
you  a  trustworthy  escort.  Jose ! ' 

"  We  all  jumped,  his  voice  was  so  different, 
and  the  corporal  of  my  squad  stepped  out  and 
saluted.  '  You  will  be  the  Sefior's  escort  as 
far  as  he  goes,'  my  teniente  said.  '  You  will 
need  only  your  revolver.'  He  stopped  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  he  said :  '  Jose,  you  must  be 
very  careful  that  he  does  not  escape.' 

"You  know  what  that  order  meant  then? 
Jose  knew,  and  his  face  went  like  ashes  —  he 
was  a  baby  anyway  —  and  he  could  hardly  say 
'  Si,  mi  teniente.'  And  that  big  fat  pig  of  a 
Don  Augusto,  he  knew,  and  he  dropped  all 
together,  as  if  he  had  no  bones,  and  he  went 
down  on  his  knees.  But  my  teniente  only 
laughed,  and  said :  '  A  pleasant  journey  to 
you,  Senor  Don  Augusto  de  los  Reyes,  and  a 
relief  from  comedies.' 

"  And  then  he  took  the  commissary  reports 
and  wrote  on  them  till  Jose  came  back.  Jose 
was  shaking  and  green  and  my  teniente  looked 
at  him.  '  You  are  back  quickly,'  he  said. 
'What  is  the  matter?' 

"  '  The  prisoner  tried  to  escape,  mi  teniente,' 
Jose  said. 


48  The  Little  Gods 

"  '  That  was  very  foolish  of  him/  said  my 
teniente.  '  Where  is  he  now  ?  ' 

"  '  Across  the  river,  mi  teniente/  Jose  an 
swered. 

"  '  Sergeant/  said  my  lieutenant,  '  send  two 
men  across  the  river  with  shovels/  and  then 
he  tossed  Jose  a  peseta  to  buy  vino,  and  then 
he  went  on  with  the  commissary  reports." 

Fermin  Majusay  had  forgotten  everything 
else  in  thinking  of  his  hero,  and  the  fire  was 
almost  out.  He  brought  it  to  a  blaze  and  lay 
down  on  his  blanket  again.  "  That  night  while 
we  whispered  together  in  barracks,  and  that 
chicken-hearted  Jose  sat  by  himself  and  mut 
tered  prayers  and  drank  vino  out  of  his  bottle, 
we  named  our  teniente  El  Diablito  —  the  Lit 
tle  Devil.  Not  because  he  was  little,  but  be 
cause  we  loved  him.  You  know  Angel  Ban- 
tiling  calls  his  wife  Chiquita  —  Tiny  One  — 
and  she  is  big  as  a  carabao.  El  Diablito,  I 
named  my  teniente,  and  we  were  afraid.  If 
he  had  come  down-stairs  that  night,  we  would 
all  have  run  away.  But  what  would  you  have  ? 
That  Don  Augusto  was  in  the  way,  so  my 
teniente  took  him  off  the  board  just  like  one 
of  Don  Antonio's  little  men  of  chewed  bread. 
That  is  the  game.  If  one  is  afraid  of  it,  there 


God's  Little  Devils  49 

are  other  games  one  can  play.  One  does  not 
have  to  be  a  soldier.  But  he  made  us  afraid, 
just  the  same. 

"  After  Don  Augusto  was  dead,  all  that  part 
of  the  province  was  good,  so  they  sent  us  to 
another  part.  Barang  was  the  name  of  the 
town  where  we  went.  It  was  a  better  town; 
the  people  were  good;  we  had  nothing  to  do 
but  drill.  And  after  drill,  often,  my  teniente 
took  me  to  shoot  with  him.  I  would  hold  an 
empty  bottle  for  beer  in  my  hand,  like  that, 
and  my  teniente  would  shoot  it  from  twenty 
paces  with  his  revolver.  Hoy,  he  was  a  devil 
at  everything,  my  teniente!  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  we  broke,  and  he  never  hurt  me. 
And  he  took  me  to  be  his  servant  in  his 
quarters,  and  I  was  very  happy,  there  in  Ba- 
rang." 

Fermin  Majusay  gazed  into  the  fire  again, 
and  his  keen  animal  face  was  wonderfully  sof 
tened  in  the  flickering  light. 

"  Dios,"  he  sighed,  "  I  was  happy,  there  in 
Barang !  Only  one  thing  I  did  not  like,  — 
that  was  Isidro  Abelarde.  He  was  the  leader 
of  the  town,  the  son  of  a  very  rich  haciendero, 
young  and  handsome.  And  he  became  the 
friend  of  my  teniente.  They  would  laugh  and 


50  The  Little  Gods 

talk  together  for  hours,  and  ride  together,  and 
I  did  not  like  it.  We  Macabebes  have  many 
enemies  —  all  the  Filipinos  are  our  enemies  — 
and  we  have  to  be  suspicious  always.  I  began 
to  wonder  why  Isidro  Abelarde  wanted  to  be 
with  my  lieutenant.  '  Mi  teniente,'  I  said  to 
him,  '  I  do  not  like  it  that  Don  Isidro  comes 
here.  It  is  not  good  that  he  can  pass  the  guard 
at  any  time,  as  if  he  were  a  white  man.  If  he 
means  harm  — ' 

"  My  teniente  laughed.  *  You  are  more 
bother  than  a  wife,  Fermin,'  he  said.  *  Why 
should  he  mean  harm,  to  me  ?  ' 

"  '  He  is  the  pariente  —  the  relative  —  of 
Don  Augusto/  I  said.  My  teniente  looked  at 
me,  and  I  saw  that  he  did  not  like  to  hear  the 
name  of  Don  Augusto.  For  a  minute  I  was 
frightened  —  he  had  terrible  eyes  when  he  was 
angry.  '  How  do  you  know  that  ?  '  he  asked 
me. 

"  I  would  not  tell  him  —  we  have  ways  of 
knowing  things  —  and  he  got  angrier,  and 
struck  me.  It  made  my  eye  black,  but  I  did 
not  care.  He  was  my  teniente,  any  way,  and 
he  had  been  drinking.  Next  day  I  was  glad 
of  it,  for  Don  Isidro  came  to  dinner,  and  he 
looked  at  my  eye.  Often,  when  he  thought  no 


God's  Little  Devils  51 

one  saw  him,  he  looked  at  it.  Then  I  had  an 
idea.  My  teniente  was  very  short  with  me, 
because  he  was  sorry,  and  Don  Isidro  was  so 
young  it  was  not  hard  to  make  him  think  that 
I  was  angry  with  my  teniente.  I  scowled  at 
him  all  the  time  behind  his  back;  you  know 
how. 

"  After  a  few  days  Don  Isidro  met  me  in 
the  plaza  and  said :  '  Fermin,  I  am  very  sorry 
that  the  teniente  struck  you.' 

"'Why  are  you  sorry,  Sefior?'  I  asked 
him. 

"  '  Because/  he  said,  '  the  teniente  is  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  I  hope  that  no  harm  will  come 
to  him.  I  have  heard  that  a  Macabebe  never 
forgives  a  blow,  but  I  hope  you  will  be  pa 
tient.' 

"  What  a  fool  that  young  Isidro  was !  I 
looked  very  hard  in  his  eyes,  and  I  said,  '  If 
a  Macabebe  forgives  a  blow  as  easily  as 
a  Bisayan  forgets  the  death  of  his  pariente, 
there  is  no  danger  for  your  friend  —  from 
me.' 

"  He  looked  at  me,  and  all  at  once  his  lips 
twitched,  and  I  knew  I  had  him.  He  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  little  pa 
per.  '  Fermin,'  he  said,  '  there  is  a  sleeping- 


52  The  Little  Gods 

powder.  The  teniente  will  not  strike  you 
again  if  you  do  not  wish  it.' 

"  That  young  fool  knew  nothing  at  all,  like 
a  baby!  I  took  the  paper  home  and  my 
teniente  and  I  gave  some  of  it  to  a  monkey. 
The  monkey  curled  up  and  died,  very  quick. 
That  was  at  night,  and  my  teniente  stood  for 
a  while  and  looked  at  the  dead  monkey  and 
the  paper.  And  he  laughed  just  the  way  he 
did  the  morning  the  guard  led  in  Don  Au- 
gusto. 

"  Next  morning  I  was  putting  the  break 
fast  on  the  table,  and  my  teniente  was  stand 
ing  at  the  window  of  the  sola,  looking  down 
at  the  plaza.  And  all  at  once  I  heard  him 
laugh,  not  very  loud,  and  he  called :  '  Hoy, 
Don  Isidro!  Have  the  complacency  to  come 
up,  amigo.  I  have  news  for  you.'  And  soon 
Don  Isidro  came  up. 

"  Jesus  Maria,  he  was  a  pisaverde  that 
morning!  White  coat  and  breeches,  and  high 
boots  of  black  leather,  and  silver  spurs,  and 
long  gloves  of  soft  white  leather. 

" '  Have  the  good-heartedness  to  share  my 
poor  breakfast/  my  teniente  said,  and  Don 
Isidro  sat  down,  and  they  ate  till  I  had  no 
patience  left.  But  at  last  Don  Isidro  pushed 


God's  Little  Devils  53 

away  his  plate  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  said,  '  Now,  teniente  mio,  what  is  this 
wonderful  news  ? ' 

"  My  teniente  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
offered  his  cigarette-case  to  Don  Isidro. 
'  Take  a  long  one,  I  beg,'  he  said. 

"  So  Don  Isidro  selected  an  entrelargos,  and 
I  held  a  match  for  him,  and  then  he  smiled  at 
my  teniente  through  the  smoke,  and  said: 
'  Our  news,  amigo  mio.  I  die  of  suspense.' 

"  My  teniente  put  the  little  packet  which 
Don  Isidro  had  given  me  on  the  table,  and 
he  looked  at  Don  Isidro.  I  think  the  young 
fool  knew  then  that  the  game  was  finished. 
But  he  was  a  brave  one,  I  will  say  that,  if  he 
was  a  fool.  He  looked  at  the  packet,  and  he 
looked  at  the  teniente,  and  he  looked  at  me 
and  said,  '  Traitor ! ' 

"  '  As  you  were,  Fermin,'  my  teniente  com 
manded  me.  '  Let  me  urge  you  as  a  friend, 
Don  Isidro,  to  smoke  slowly  and  without  ex 
citement,  for  when  that  cigarette  is  finished 
you  will  be  finished.' 

"  Don  Isidro's  hand  trembled  a  little,  but 
he  was  not  afraid.  '  My  compliments,  Senor 
Teniente,'  he  said.  *  You  win  again.  Have 
our  traitor  bring  a  little  water,  and  when  I 


54  The  Little  Gods 

am  done  smoking  I  will  take  the  sleeping- 
powder.' 

" '  I  am  sorry/  said  my  teniente,  '  but  a 
monkey  ate  it.  And  it  would  be  unlawful  to 
help  you  to  commit  suicide,  anyway.  Fermin, 
tell  Raymundo  to  buckle  on  his  revolver  and 
be  ready  to  escort  Don  Isidro  down  to  —  San 
Pablo.' 

" '  Dispensa,  mi  teniente,'  I  said.  '  Does 
one  ask  a  Macabebe  to  kill  his  officer,  and  call 
him  a  traitor,  for  nothing  ?  ' 

"  My  teniente  looked  at  me,  and  laughed. 
'  Get  your  own  revolver  then,  Fermin,'  he 
said. 

"  When  I  came  back,  Don  Isidro's  cigarette 
was  very  short.  They  both  stood  up,  and  my 
teniente  said :  '  Adios,  Don  Isidro.  An  easy 
journey  to  you  in  Fermin's  friendly  company, 
and  a  welcome  in  —  San  Pablo.  Remember 
me  particularly  to  your  pariente,  Don  Au- 
gusto.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Fermin,  that  you 
must  be  very  careful  that  he  does  not  escape.' 

"  '  I  will  be  very  careful,  mi  teniente,'  I 
said,  and  we  went  away,  and  my  teniente 
never  knew  that  I  made  Don  Isidro  carry 
along  a  spade  I  saw  in  the  guard-room.  One 
does  not  call  a  Macabebe  a  traitor  for  nothing. 


God's  Little  Devils  55 

.  .  .  There  is  no  more  wood,  and  it  gets  late 
and  cold.  Shall  we  sleep,  or  will  you  hear  the 
rest  of  my  story  while  our  fire  dies? 

"  Bueno.  I  will  not  be  long.  Some  of  this 
story  got  out,  not  much,  for  only  I  and  my 
teniente  knew  it  all,  but  it  frightened  the  other 
Americans,  and  they  said  my  teniente  was 
crazy.  Sangre  de  Dios!  He  was  not  crazy 
then,  but  only  one  of  God's  own  little  devils. 
He  was  crazy  afterwards,  perhaps,  but  they 
made  him  so.  Listen  while  I  tell  you  what 
they  did  to  him. 

"  There  is  a  little  place  very  far  back  in 
the  hills,  Santo  Spirito  they  call  it,  where  the 
frailes  used  to  go  for  a  retreat.  There  is 
nothing  there,  just  a  big  convent  of  stone 
where  no  one  lives,  and  a  few  little  dirty 
houses,  and  the  mountains  behind,  and  the 
jungle  all  around,  and  the  only  people  are 
lazy  Bisayanos  who  do  no  work  and  are  half 
drunk  with  opium.  And  they  sent  my  teniente 
there  to  eat  his  heart ! 

"  Oh,  he  was  brave !  He  was  very  brave, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  do.  That's  why  they 
sent  us  there;  they  knew  we  could  do  no 
harm.  The  mountain  was  empty,  and  there 
was  no  one  in  the  jungle,  and  the  people  of 


56  The  Little  Gods 

Santo  Spirito  were  too  lazy  to  be  bad.  But 
he  was  brave;  he  made  work.  We  drilled 
long  every  day,  and  we  made  a  parade-ground 
of  the  plaza  in  front  of  the  convent,  with 
culverts  of  concrete  at  the  corners  to  carry 
off  the  water  in  the  rainy  season.  That  took 
many  hours.  But  always  there  was  the  eve 
ning  coming,  when  my  teniente  had  to  sit  in 
the  big  sola,  with  the  rats  and  the  lizards 
squealing  above  him,  and  drink  and  drink  and 
drink,  and  wait  for  the  time  when  he  could 
sleep. 

"  Hoy,  that  drinking !  It  frightened  me,  and 
I  spoke  to  him  about  it.  I  could  always  speak 
to  him,  until  the  very  end.  He  laughed  at 
me.  '  Give  me  something  else  to  do,  then,' 
he  said.  '  Shall  I  go  and  say  a  mass  in  the 
chapel  ? ' 

"  So  he  would  sit  and  drink  aguardiente  for 
hours,  and  look  at  his  boots.  Sometimes  he 
would  be  like  himself  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  he  would  go  for  a  ride,  or  shoot  some 
bottles  from  my  hand.  But  not  for  long. 
One  day  his  hand  was  not  steady,  and  he 
shot  too  close  —  Ai,  mi  teniente!  He  just 
dropped  the  revolver  on  the  ground  and  said, 
'  That's  the  end  of  it  at  last,  Fermin,'  and  he 


God's  Little  Devils  57 

walked  back  to  the  convent,  and  his  shoul 
ders  were  like  the  shoulders  of  an  old  man. 

"  After  that  he  went  out  no  more,  and  I 
took  my  blankets  into  his  room  and  slept  on 
the  floor,  and  all  night  long-  I  could  hear  him 
tossing  on  his  cot.  Sometimes  he  would  say, 
'  Are  you  there,  Fermin  ? '  and  I  would  say, 
'  I  am  always  here,  mi  teniente/  and  then  he 
would  rest  for  a  little  while. 

"  But  one  night  I  woke  and  he  was  not  on 
his  cot.  I  got  up  to  look  and  he  came  in  from 
the  balcony  —  there  was  one  of  those  closed 
balconies  all  around  the  convent,  outside  the 
rooms  —  and  he  was  dressed  in  his  full  uni 
form,  and  had  his  two  revolvers  and  his  shot 
gun.  He  did  not  seem  to  see  me. 

"  '  Mi  teniente ! '  I  said. 

"  He  looked  where  I  was,  and  still  he  did 
not  seem  to  see  me.  '  Keep  a  good  lookout/ 
he  said.  '  They  may  come  at  any  time.'  He 
went  out  into  the  balcony  again,  and  I  could 
hear  his  feet  —  tramp,  tramp,  very  slow  — 
while  he  went  down  to  the  far  end  and  came 
back  on  the  other  side. 

"  Ai,  but  I  was  scared !  We  were  all  scared, 
for  every  night  after  that  we  could  hear  his 
feet,  and  he  never  seemed  to  see  us,  but  some- 


58  The  Little  Gods 

times  he  would  call :  *  On  guard,  there !  They 
may  come  at  any  time.'  We  were  all  scared, 
but  we  did  all  we  could,  if  we  were  frightened. 
Not  one  of  us  ran  away,  not  even  that  baby 
Jose. 

"  And  then  the  end  came,  the  end  of  the 
game  for  my  teniente.  Five  days  I  brought 
his  food  and  he  never  touched  it,  only  drank 
aguardiente  instead.  And  five  nights,  all 
night  long,  we  heard  him  marching  round 
and  round  the  balcony,  with  his  two  revolvers 
and  his  shotgun1.  The  last  night  I  was  so 
tired  that  I  fell  asleep.  I  do  not  know  how 
long  I  slept,  but  all  at  once  I  heard  my  teni 
ente  call  '  Halt ! '  and  then  I  heard  him  laugh, 
and  then  his  feet,  quick,  as  if  he  ran,  and  then 
a  crash  on  the  ground  outside.  I  ran,  and 
some  of  the  guard  ran,  and  we  found  him 
lying  on  the  flagstones  of  the  patio,  dead 
where  he  had  fallen. 

"  That  is  the  way  they  killed  my  teniente, 
—  my  teniente  who  might  have  been  Gov 
ernor-General  of  the  world  if  they  had  let 
him  play  the  game.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
the  end  of  it.  Even  when  he  was  crazy,  and 
heard  the  enemies  we  could  not  see  coming, 
he  only  laughed  and  ran  out  to  meet  them." 


God's  Little  Devils  59 

A  last  ember  of  the  fire  flamed  up,  and  Fer- 
min  Majusay  turned  his  face  quickly  from  the 
telltale  light.  "  It  was  a  long  story,"  he  said, 
and  loosened  his  revolver  in  the  holster. 
"  Sleep  without  fear,  Sefior,"  he  said.  "  No 
one  will  trouble  us  while  I  am  here." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    LITTLE    MAN 

IT  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  the  porter 
or  I  was  most  bewildered  by  our  meeting,  for 
I,  mind  you,  had  made  a  long  journey  on  the 
mountain  with  Fermin  Majusay,  looking  for 
a  certain  butterfly  you  wouldn't  be  interested 
in,  and  had  spent  a  whole  night  by  the  fire 
which  Fermin  made,  while  the  porter  had  only 
to  go  to  the  other  end  of  the  courtyard  of  the 
temple  of  Tzin  Piaou  with  his  water- jug. 
Yet  we  returned  from  our  respective  errands 
at  the  same  moment,  and  met  at  the  door  of 
my  heathen  tutor's  cell!  The  porter  came 
within  an  ace  of  letting  the  jug  fall,  and  I 
dare  say  I  should  have  done  the  same  thing, 
if  I  had  had  a  jug. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  up  at  Nang  and 
me,  and  into  us,  and  through  us,  with  eyes 
that  smiled  into  vacancy,  and  at  that  moment, 
I  think,  I  first  began  to  entertain  some  doubts 
of  his  complete  benevolence. 


The  Little  Man  61 

"  Well,  Nang,"  purred  the  old  gentleman 
from  his  slab,  "  what's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  Holy  One,"  stammered  the  porter,  "  not 
two  pipes  ago  I  let  this  gentleman  out  to  go 
on  a  long  journey.  And  here  he  is.  And  he 
has  not  come  back,  for  I  barred  the  gate  be 
hind  him." 

"  Oh,  well,  Nang,  what  difference  does  that 
make?"  purred  the  Holy  One,  soothingly. 
"  You  may  go  now." 

The  porter  went  away,  shaking  his  head 
and  muttering,  and  my  heathen  priest  and  I 
were  left  alone  together. 

"  And  have  you  had,"  said  he,  raising  him 
self  a  Little  on  his  hollowed  slab,  "  an  easy  and 
a  pleasant  journey  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  go  for  pleasure,"  I  answered 
sulkily,  for  I  felt  that  he  was  mocking  me. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  answered  quickly,  "  it  was 
for  instruction.  I  forgot.  And  did  you  gain 
instruction  from  my  Little  Gods  ?  " 

"  This  time  you  sent  me,"  I  reminded  him, 
"  to  see  some  Little  Devils." 

The  spark  in  his  eyes  flickered  into  flame 
again.  "  Did  I !  "  he  murmured,  purringly 
as  a  cat.  "  How  I  keep  forgetting.  But  after 


62  The  Little  Gods 

all,  it's  merely  a  matter  of  names.  Did  you 
like  what  you  saw  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered  bluntly,  "  I  did  not. 
Your  Little  Gods,  or  your  Little  Devils,  what 
ever  you  choose  to  call  them,  seem  to  me  the 
veriest  fiends.  And  cowardly  fiends,  at  that. 
They  catch  men  like  rats,  in  traps,  and  drown 
them,  helpless,  as  men  drown  rats." 

"  My  son,"  purred  my  old  heathen  priest, 
"  I  wouldn't  call  them  cowards,  if  I  were  you. 
They  might  not  like  it." 

"  Like  it  or  not,"  said  I,  hotly,  "  they  are 
cowards,  if  what  I've  seen  of  them  is  a  fair 
sample  of  their  ways.  Do  they  never  give  a 
man  a  fair  chance,  in  the  open,  to  fight  for  his 
life,  and  for  things  dearer  to  him  than  life?" 

"  For  life  and  things  dearer  than  life," 
echoed  my  old  heathen  priest,  and  yawned, 
ever  so  slightly,  and  stretched  his  old  legs 
out  on  his  slab.  "  Dear  me,  I  don't  see  why 
they  shouldn't.  Though  of  course  I  know 
nothing  about  it.  Suppose,"  he  suggested, 
"  you  look  that  up  for  yourself.  I  dislike  to 
seem  selfish,  but  really  this  is  an  hour  which 
I  invariably  devote  to  a  nap." 

He  made  a  little  imperative,  dismissing  ges 
ture  with  his  hand,  and  — 


The  Little  Man  63 

"  An'  this,"  says  big  Terry  Clancy,  reach 
ing  over  and  getting  a  grip  on  the  little 
man's  collar,  "  this  is  our  Scuts,  the  married 
man." 

I  never  served  in  a  company  yet  —  and 
I've  served  in  so  many,  first  and  last,  that  I'll 
never  do  anything  else  —  I  never  served  in 
a  company  yet  that  didn't  have  a  bully  and 
a  fool  in  it.  You  can  always  tell  them.  No 
one  ever  dares  to  cuss  out  the  bully,  and  some 
body  is  all  the  time  cussin'  out  the  fool.  In 
the  old  company  the  bully  was  Clancy,  re 
lieving  me,  as  Special  Orders  says.  We  had 
some  argument  about  it  at  first,  being  about 
of  a  size  and  the  biggest  men  there,  but  Terry 
was  younger  than  me,  and  he  relieved  me. 
The  fool  was  a  poor  little  yellow  dog  that  we 
called  Scuts.  I  don't  even  remember  his 
name.  He  was  the  most  helpless,  discouraged, 
weak-eyed  little  hombre  the  sun  ever  dodged 
behind  a  cloud  to  keep  from  shining  on. 
Worse  than  that,  he  had  cold  feet.  All 
through  the  China  campaign  he  was  so  scared 
he  needn't  have  been  afraid  at  all.  A  bullet 
couldn't  hit  such  a  little  wrinkled,  pinched-up 
thing  as  he  was,  even  if  it  wanted  to.  But  of 
course  he  got  it  worse  than  if  he'd  been  just 


64  The  Little  Gods 

plain  fool.  The  company  don't  stand  for  cold 
feet. 

Even  the  officers  got  to  jollyin'  about  him. 
"  The  little  man,"  the  Captain  always  called 
him.  "  H'm,"  grunts  the  Captain,  the  day  we 
was  getting  it  so  bad  in  front  of  Tientsin. 
One  of  them  club-footed  Chinese  bullets  had 
just  bored  through  his  leg,  and  it  looked  like 
he'd  bleed  to  death  before  the  Doctor  could 
fix  him  up.  "H'm.  Artery  gone,  you  say? 
Where's  the  little  man?  He's  just  about  the 
size  to  crawl  in  and  hang  onto  it  till  you're 
ready  to  tie  it.  H'm." 

It  was  the  boys  telling  that  to  each  other, 
and  the  Old  Man's  sending  down  the  line 
afterwards  to  know  if  anybody  had  the  ma 
kings  of  a  cigarette,  that  kept  the  company 
from  breaking  that  day,  I  reckon.  We  got 
it  hard.  If  the  Old  Man  had  been  with  us 
after  that,  Scuts  would  sure  have  had  to  go.. 
But  he  being  in  hospital,  the  Lieutenant  just 
took  the  whole  outfit  with  him,  the  part  that 
could  walk,  anyway,  and  Scuts  went  back  to 
Manila  with  us,  and  down  to  Samar. 

"  An*  this,"  says  Terry,  picking  Scuts  off 
the  bench  and  shaking  him  careless,  like  he 
was  a  rag  baby,  "  is  the  idol  of  his  company, 


The  Little  Man  65 

the  bold  bad  soldier  lad  that  won  the  heart  an' 
tuba-stand  of  the  prettiest  little  brown  girl  in 
Samar.  Boys,"  says  he,  spinning  the  little 
man  round  with  a  thumb  and  finger  in  the 
back  of  his  neck,  "  let  me  present  the  husband 
of  the  beauteous  Marie.  Bow  to  the  gentle 
men,  Scutsy." 

"  Aw,  lemme  go,  Terry,"  says  Scuts,  blush 
ing  pink  inside  of  his  yellow  skin,  and  grin 
ning  like  a  puppy  that's  just  been  kicked. 
"  Aw,  you  lemme  go." 

"  You  set  down,  Scuts,"  says  Terry,  spin 
ning  him  round  again  and  laying  him  on  the 
bench.  "  Set  down  an'  tell  us  all  about  it. 
Give  us  a  tip.  We're  all  wantin'  to  know  how 
you  did  it.  We  might  want  to  get  married 
ourselves  some  day." 

"  Aw,  you  gwan,"  says  Scuts,  twistin' 
round,  with  that  little  damp  grin  of  his. 
"  You're  joshin'  me." 

"  Man,"  says  Terry,  "  'tis  no  josh.  Honor 
bright,  we're  all  envyin'  you  gettin'  a  fine 
pretty  little  girl  like  that.  Eh,  Casey  ?  "  he 
says  to  me. 

"  Straight  goods,"  says  I.  "  The  little  man 
pulled  down  a  cold  hand  that  deal." 


66  The  Little  Gods 

"  Hear  that,  Scutsy  ?  "  says  Terry.  "  Come 
on,  now,  and  tell  us  about  it." 

"  Aw,"  says  Scuts,  throwing  a  chest  as  big 
around  as  my  arm,  and  twisting  a  few  white 
hairs  on  his  upper  lip,  which  was  his  way  of 
wagging  his  tail,  "  Aw,"  he  says,  "  Marie,  aw 
—  I  kind  of  helped  her  keepin'  her  books,  y' 
know,  showin'  her  how  to  spell  the  boys'  names 
an'  all  that  business,  an'  we  got  to  be  pretty 
good  friends.  An'  one  day  she  says  to  me, 
'  Scuts,  all  the  girls  but  me  has  got  American 
man,  an'  they  laugh  at  me,'  she  says.  '  Scuts, 
I  want  a  'Merican  man  myself.'  '  All  right,' 
I  says,  never  thinkin'  of  myself,  '  I'll  tell  the 
boys.'  *  Scuts,'  she  says,  '  I  got  plenty  dinero 
sellin'  tuba  to  the  boys,  an'  I  likes  you.  You 
be  my  man.'  Aw,"  says  Scuts,  twistin'  the 
hairs,  "  I  looked  at  her,  an'  I  seen  she  was 
pretty  fair-lookin',  so  I  says,  '  All  right, 
Marie.'  An'  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it,  neither," 
says  Scuts,  looking  round  with  his  big  blue 
eyes,  as  the  crowd  begins  to  laugh.  "  She's 
'bout  th'  nicest  girl  in  this  town,  I  reckon," 
Scuts  says. 

"  Scuts,  you  gobble  the  pot,"  says  Terry, 
twisting  him  off  the  bench.  "  You  run  along 
to  Marie  right  now,  an'  tell  her  to  be  sure  and 


The  Little  Man  67 

wrap  a  blanket  round  you  before  she  puts  you 
to  bed.  Wouldn't  that  beat  hell,  now,"  he 
says  to  us,  watching  the  little  man  trot  off 
down-town.  "  They're  all  alike,"  he  says. 
"  Give  a  white  one  fifty  plunks  to  buy  a  dog-, 
an'  she'll  come  back  with  a  blear-eyed,  knock- 
kneed  pug,  and  give  a  brown  one  a  chance  at 
th'  company,  an'  she  picks  out  Scuts.  Marie's 
a  good,  girl,  too.  That's  th'  worst  of  it.  Th' 
better  they  are  th'  less  they  know,"  says  Terry, 
"  an'  by  th'  time  they  get  all  th'  sabe  they  need, 
nobody'd  take  th'm  for  a  gift.  Who's  comin' 
over  in  th'  grove  an'  drink  a  cocoanut?  " 

This  was  along  before  Balangiga,  and 
things  were  running  easy,  the  Old  Man  being 
still  in  hospital,  and  the  Lieutenant  being  only 
a  boy.  A  straight  boy  he  was,  but  not  sure 
yet  how  he  ought  to  take  us.  The  country  was 
quiet  and  the  people  friendly  as  bugs,  and  we 
got  careless.  About  half  the  boys  was  sleepin' 
out  of  quarters  off  and  on,  and  the  Top  didn't 
say  anything.  I  don't  blame  him.  Of  course 
me  and  Terry  and  a  lot  of  other  old-timers 
didn't  go  in  for  that  way  of  doing  business, 
but  it's  different  with  a  boy.  The  only  home 
he  has  while  he's  in  the  service  is  the  kind 
he  can  make  by  hanging  up  his  hat  and  order- 


68  The  Little  Gods 

ing  the  drinks,  and  he  takes  it  pretty  rough 
if  you  don't  let  him  have  that  in  a  place  like 
the  Philippines.  So  we  went  drifting  along 
with  only  two  sentries  posted,  and  the  quar 
ters  half  empty  every  night,  never  looking  for 
any  trouble. 

But  one  afternoon  Scuts  came  trotting  in, 
looking  as  yellow  as  Durham,  and  had  a  hab- 
lar  with  the  Top,  and  then  they  both  went 
across  to  the  Lieutenant's  quarters.  They 
didn't  come  out  till  just  before  Assembly  went 
for  Retreat,  and  we  smelled  something.  Sure 
enough,  orders  was  read  to  keep  magazines 
loaded,  carry  two  hundred  rounds  in  the  belt, 
and  not  be  absent  from  quarters  between  sun 
set  and  sunrise.  Soon  as  we  were  dismissed, 
we  got  after  Scuts. 

"  The  natives  had  it  fixed  to  rush  us  at 
night,"  he  says.  "  Marie  tipped  me  off.  She 
told  me  not  to  be  out  of  quarters  to-night,  an* 
th'  Top,  he  figured  out  the  rest,"  says  Scuts, 
shortsighting,  you  might  say,  out  into  the 
underbrush  as  if  he  expected  to  see  a  gang  of 
bolomen,  and  holding  tight  to  his  rifle. 

"  An'  th'  lady,  she  had  another  friend," 
sings  out  Piggy  O'Neil.  The  crowd  laughs, 
and  Scuts  turns  a  dirty  pink  again. 


The  Little  Man  69 

"  Aw,"  he  says,  "  she  wouldn't  tell  me  no 
lie.  She's  a  good  straight  girl." 

Then  we  began  to  debate  it,  the  way  we 
always  do  in  the  Army,  if  it's  only  a  question 
of  how  far  it  is  from  New  York  to  the  moon, 
and  finally  everybody  called  everybody  else  a 
liar  and  we  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning  everything  was  quiet  and 
peaceful,  so  after  drill  the  crowd  was  begin 
ning  to  jolly  Scuts  for  fair,  when  the  operator 
stuck  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"  Come  up  here,  some  of  you,  for  God's 
sake,"  he  says,  and  we  didn't  stop  to  ask  ques 
tions.  He  was  bending  over  his  ticker,  white 
as  a  sheet.  "  I'm  a  fool,  all  right,"  he  says, 
"  but  this  is  sure  gettin'  on  my  nerve.  There 
was  a  message  started  to  go  through  from 
Balangiga  ten  minutes  ago,  and  all  to  once  — 
Hear  that ! "  he  says.  The  machine  gave  a 
jerky  little  chatter.  "  It's  like  a  man  sendin' 
in  his  sleep,"  says  the  operator.  "  For  ten 
mortal  minutes  that  thing  has  been  stuttering 
halves  of  words." 

"Who  is  it?"  asks  Terry. 

"  Murphy's  sendin',"  says  the  operator. 

"  Then  he's  jokin'  with  ye,"  says  Terry. 
"  Billy  always  was  a  great  hand  for  his  —  " 


70  The  Little  Gods 

"  Huh  ?  "  grunts  the  operator,  bending  over, 
as  she  begun  to  stutter  again. 

"What's  he  saying?"  somebody  asked,  but 
the  operator  didn't  seem  to  hear  him.  Then 
all  at  once  he  began  to  talk  in  a  voice  that 
didn't  belong  to  him. 

"  Balangiga,"  he  read,  "  seven-ten  A.  M. 
Company  —  attacked  by  —  bolomen  —  while 
at  —  breakfast.  Rifles  in  quarters.  Fought 
with  —  dishes  and  —  knives  and  forks  —  but 
—  no  good  —  " 

"  God !  "  says  somebody,  and  a  dozen  say, 
"  Shut  up." 

But  the  operator  didn't  seem  to  mind. 
"  Look  out  for  —  yourselves,"  he  read.  And 
then  he  begun  to  call  out  a  list  of  names,  very 
slow,  and  between  each  one  you  could  hear 
the  crowd  draw  a  long  breath.  "  Sullivan  — 
Brewster  —  Fleishart  —  Nickerson  —  " 

"  Is  that  Tommy  Nickerson  ?  "  says  some 
body. 

"  Shut  up,"  says  Terry. 

"  But  Tommy  was  my  bunky  for  three  —  " 

"  —  Slavin  —  "  reads  the  operator  — - 
"  Kelly  —  Hunt  —  "  and  so  he  goes  on,  Terry 
checking  off  till  we  thought  he  never  would 
stop.  "  Fourty-five,  fourty-six,  fourty-seven, 


"  Fought  with  —  dishes  and  —  knives  and  forks." 


[Page  70 


The  Little  Man  71 

fourty-eight,"  he  says.  Then  the  machine 
stopped  talking.  "  That's  all,"  says  Terry. 
"  Fourty-eight  good  men  that  they've 
killed  —  " 

"  Huh  ?  "  grunts  the  man  again,  and  then 
the  machine  began  to  click  very  slow,  and  the 
operator's  eyes  bulged  out  of  his  head.  "  Mur 
phy!"  he  says.  "Christ,"  he  says,  "it  can't 
be  Murphy.  Murphy's  sendin'.  Billy,"  he 
says,  jabbing  at  his  key  and  then  listening. 
The  machine  clicked  once  or  twice  and  then 
stopped.  The  operator  turns  round  to  us. 
"  It's  Billy,"  he  says.  "  Billy's  been  sendin' 
this,  an'  he's  dead."  The  big  fellow  just 
dropped  down  on  his  table  and  cried. 

We  looked  at  him  and  we  looked  at  each 
other,  and  then  we  went  down-stairs  on  tip 
toe,  like  there  was  a  dyin'  man  in  the  house. 
"  Fourty-nine,"  says  Terry,  whispering  like  — 
"  fourty-nine  men  of  the  regiment  killed  at 
breakfast,  with  no  show  to  help  themselves. 
God!  And  we  might  a  got  the  same  thing 
only  —  Scuts,"  he  says,  "  where's  that  little 
woman  o'  yours?  " 

"  Warn't  she  straight?"  says  Scuts,  throw 
ing  his  chest. 

"  You  poor  fool,"  Terry  shouts,   "  go  and 


72  The  Little  Gods 

get  her  up  here  before  those  devils  suspect  she 
told  us.  Take  your  rifle,  damn  you,"  he  says, 
as  the  little  man  trotted  off.  "  Fourty-nine  o' 
them  killed  fightin'  with  their  mess-kits. 
God!" 

Just  as  we  was  getting  into  our  kits,  Scuts 
comes  back.  "  I  can't  find  her,"  he  says.  "  I 
ast  her  mother,  an'  she  just  grinned  at  me," 
he  says,  staring  out  of  the  window  as  if  he 
expects  to  see  her  there.  "  I  can't  find  her," 
he  says.  "  Terry,  do  you  s'pose  —  " 

"  Scuts,"  Terry  yells  at  him,  "  you  get  ready 
to  go  out  on  this  patrol  with  us.  Do  you  hear, 
or  have  I  got  to  bat  you  ?  "  he  says,  like  he 
meant  it. 

We  scouted  down  through  the  town,  the 
people  smiling  at  us  just  as  friendly  as  ever, 
and  never  a  sign  of  Marie  could  we  get. 
So  we  swung  out  through  the  paddies  and 
circled  the  town,  coming  back  toward  the 
quarters  through  the  grove  of  cocoa-palms. 
The  Lieutenant  was  on  the  point,  and  all  at 
once  he  stopped  short.  We  pushed  up,  and 
there,  tied  to  a  big  palm-tree,  was  something 
I've  tried  hard  to  forget.  'Twouldn't  have 
been  so  bad  if  she  had  just  been  dead,  but  all 
at  once  she  — 


The  Little  Man  73 

"  They  cut  her  all  to  pieces  an'  it  didn't  kill 
her,"  says  Scuts,  surprised  like. 

The  Lieutenant  pulls  his  gun.  "  Right  or 
wrong,  I  can't  stand  that,"  he  says,  and  fires. 

The  little  man  never  flinched  at  the  report. 
"  They  cut  her  all  to  pieces,  an'  it  didn't  kill 
her,"  he  says  again,  kind  of  like  a  phonograph. 

"  You  get  out  of  here,  Scuts,"  says  Terry, 
grabbing  him  by  the  shoulder  and  whirling 
him  round. 

"  You  leave  me  be,"  whines  the  little  man. 
"  God !  "  he  says.  "  Cut  her  like  that,  an'  it 
didn't  kill  her!  An'  her  such  a  soft  little 
thing  —  " 

"  Damn  you,  Scuts,"  says  Terry,  "  will  you 
cut  it  out,  or  have  I  got  to  break  your  head  ?  " 

"  Aw,  you  lemme  alone,"  whines  Scuts, 
meek  as  ever.  "  I'm  a  goin',  ain't  I?  "  And 
he  turns  and  trots  back  to  quarters,  never  say 
ing  another  word. 

When  we  told  the  boys,  there  was  cursing 
like  you  won't  hear  often  outside  the  service, 
but  after  Terry  had  took  them  out  in  the  grove 
in  squads  of  half  a  dozen,  they  just  stopped 
talking  and  sat  down  quiet  in  the  sun,  cleaning 
their  rifles  and  looking  at  the  town  over  across 
the  parade.  All  at  once,  a  rifle  cracked,  and 


74  The  Little  Gods 

a  native  over  there  cut  for  cover  like  a  hen. 
The  Lieutenant  came  running  down. 

"  Whose  gun  was  that?  "  he  asks. 

Old  John  Slattery,  the  oldest  man  in  the 
company,  with  twenty-eight  years  in,  gets  up 
slow  and  stiff,  and  salutes.  "  Mine,  sir,"  he 
says.  "  I  was  workin'  the  cartridges  out  of 
the  magazine,  an'  she  must've  gone  off  acci 
dental." 

The  boy  just  looks  at  us  for  about  a  minute. 
"  The  next  one  of  you  that  fires  a  shot  with 
out  orders,"  he  says,  "  will  stand  up  against 
the  convent  wall  there  in  front  of  a  squad, 
if  I'm  the  only  man  in  the  squad.  When  the 
time  comes,"  he  says,  "  you'll  have  all  the 
shooting  you  want.  Until  then,  you'll  leave 
the  natives  alone,  or  you'll  have  to  kill  me." 

It  was  hard  holding  in,  thinking  of  Marie 
over  there  among  the  palm-trees,  and  the  boys 
in  Balangiga,  and  Billy  Murphy  making  his 
little  speech  over  the  wire ;  but  the  Lieutenant 
was  right,  and  when  the  orders  did  come,  we 
didn't  have  any  kick  coming  about  the  way 
he  let  us  carry  them  out.  It  was  the  roughest 
little  old  fighting  I've  ever  been  through. 

You'd  naturally  thought  the  little  man 
would  brace  up  and  get  into  it,  after  seeing 


The  Little  Man  75 

what  he'd  seen.  But  he  just  got  peakeder  and 
meeker  every  day.  Seemed  like  he  was  half 
asleep,  and  only  woke  up  long  enough  to  talk 
about  his  dreams.  And  his  talk  was  enough 
to  drive  you  loco. 

One  night  we'd  just  come  into  camp,  when 
Terry  pitched  his  rifle  away  and  dug  for  his 
boot  as  fast  as  he  could.  "  Damn  that  ant," 
he  says.  "  Who'd  think  a  little  thing  like  that 
could  bite  worse'n  a  good  big  horse-fly  ?  " 

"  Terry,"  says  Scuts,  "  how  do  you  reckon 
it  feels  to  have  millions  of  red  ants  crawlin' 
all  over  you,  an'  you  all  cut  an'  —  " 

"  Damn  you,  Scuts,"  says  Terry,  reaching 
for  him  and  cuffing  him,  "  will  you  shut  up  ?  " 

At  last  one  day  we  ran  into  them  in  full 
force  in  a  little  meadow  that  was  broken  up 
with  clumps  of  bamboo  and  tall  grass.  We 
started  firing  in  close  order,  for  it's  dangerous 
to  get  spread  out  in  country  like  that,  when 
you're  fighting  men  with  knives.  But  after 
a  while,  them  rushing  first  one  side  of  the 
line  and  then  the  other,  and  us  getting  after 
them  with  the  bayonet,  we  opened  out.  Fi 
nally  we  got  'em  going  just  like  we  wanted 
'em,  in  bunches.  We'd  fire  as  they  ran  till  they 
had  to  drop  into  cover,  and  then  we'd  rush 


76  The  Little  Gods 

'em  with  the  bayonet  and  butt.  It  was  the 
easiest  sort  of  going,  more  like  chasing  rab 
bits  than  men,  and  when  the  recall  blowed  we 
had  only  five  men  missing,  Scuts  among  them. 
The  Lieutenant  sent  out  half  a  dozen  of  us  to 
hunt  them  up,  and  in  a  little  hollow,  'way 
ahead  of  where  anybody  else  had  gone,  we 
found  the  little  man  lying  curled  up  on  his 
face  looking  comfortable,  the  way  a  man  that's 
been  killed  quick  most  always  does.  Around 
him  there  was  a  heap  of  dead  natives,  no 
wounded  ones.  Terry  turned  him  over.  He 
had  a  bolo  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  smiling  his 
little  weak-eyed  smile. 

"  The  son  of  a  gun !  "  says  Terry,  gulping. 
"  The  damn  little  son  of  a  gun !  What  the 
hell  are  you  fellers  standin'  there  for  ?  "  he 
says  to  us,  picking  up  the  little  man  and  lay 
ing  him  over  his  shoulder.  "  There's  four 
other  lads  you've  got  to  find  before  sundown." 


CHAPTER    IV 

A   LITTLE   RIPPLE    OF    PATRIOTISM 

"  You  are  bold,  my  son,  at  any  rate,"  mur 
mured  my  heathen  priest,  blandly  smiling 
through  me  into  vacancy.  "  The  last  man  to 
knock  at  the  gate  of  Tzin  Piaou  with  his  foot, 
found  the  foot  grown  fast  to  the  stone.  They 
had  to  cut  it  off  to  set  him  free.  That  must 
have  been  a  hundred  years  ago,  more  or  less. 
I  forget.  The  foot,  with  the  gate-post  attached 
to  it,  is  standing  in  the  Great  Hall  of  the 
Images.  Relic,  you  know.  It's  rather  inter 
esting,  it's  so  out  of  the  common  run  of  relics. 
You  might  like  to  glance  at  it  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  said  hastily.  Something 
in  my  old  gentleman's  blandness  was  anything 
but  reassuring.  "  I  beg  Tzin  Piaou's  pardon, 
I  am  sure,"  said  I.  "  And,"  said  I,  pulling 
out  my  purse,  "  if  in  my  hurry  I  was  unfor 
tunate  enough  to  injure  the  door  in  any  way, 
I'd  be  more  than  glad  —  " 


78  The  Little  Gods 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  my  old  gentleman 
assured  me.  "  It's  a  very  solid  door,  indeed." 

"  I'm  so  glad  of  that,"  said  I,  putting  up 
my  purse. 

'"  Still,"  purred  the  old  gentleman  thought 
fully,  "of  course  one  can  never  tell  just  how 
a  god  may  feel  about  irreverence.  In  cases  of 
doubt,  the  small  precaution  of  an  offering  —  " 

I  handed  him  a  piece  of  gold,  and  he  stowed 
it  away,  very  carefully,  in  his  girdle,  just  over 
the  pit  of  his  stomach.  "  My  son,"  he  said 
benignantly,  "  through  me,  his  representative, 
Tzin  Piaou  deigns  to  thank  you  and  assure 
you  that  all  is  forgotten." 

Receiving  the  thanks  of  a  god  was  such  an 
unwonted  experience  to  me  that  I  was  not  sure 
I  could  acknowledge  them  in  proper  form.  So 
I  bowed,  and  held  my  tongue.  There  are 
worse  moves,  in  tight  places,  for  one  who  can 
bow  with  dignity. 

"  And  now,  my  son,"  said  my  old  gentle 
man,  poking  subconsciously  with  the  forefinger 
of  his  right  hand  at  a  hard  spot  just  over  his 
stomach,  "  tell  me  what  has  put  you  out.  For 
you  are  put  out." 

"  It's  your  infernal  Little  Gods,"  said  I, 
boldly.  "  I'm  sick  of  them." 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      79 

"  My  infernal  Little  Gods !  "  he  murmured. 
"  What  a  curious  conjunction  of  contradictory 
terms.  And  so  you  are  sick  of  them.  Why  ?  " 

"  Their  taste  seems  to  run  wholly  to  Trag 
edy,"  I  complained,  "  and  such  dingy  Tragedy. 
And  such  unnecessary  Tragedy.  How  they 
do  work  to  entangle  some  childish  negro  giant, 
some  weak  simpleton  of  a  common  soldier  —  " 

My  old  gentleman  yawned,  hard  as  he  strove 
to  conceal  the  fact.  "  You  must  excuse  me," 
he  purred,  when  he  saw  that  I  had  seen,  "  but 
really,  at  this  hour  —  Suppose,"  he  suggested, 
sinking  back  on  his  slab,  "  you  watch  a  Farce 
or  two,  by  way  of  change.  How  will  that  do  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  there  are  any  Farces  in  the 
Orient,"  I  said  doubtfully,  "  I'm  sure  I'd  be 
very  glad  —  " 

"  It's  easy  to  find  out,"  said  he,  and  moved 
his  hand  a  little,  and  —  I  heard  a  voice  speak 
ing,  an  even,  drawling,  dryly  humorous  voice. 
This  is  what  it  said. 

"  Want  passes,  eh  ?  Twelve-hour  passes  ? 
H'm,"  says  the  Captain.  Me  and  Big  Terry 
Clancy  and  three  or  four  others  was  standin' 
up  in  front  of  him  with  three  months'  pay  in 
our  blouses,  lookin'  pleasant  and  harmless  for 


80  The  Little  Gods 

a  fare-ye-well.  "  H'm,"  he  says,  "  you're  a 
fine  bunch.  Can  you  remember  you're  in  Ma- 
niller  now,  not  Samar  ?  " 

"  We  can,  sir,"  says  Terry. 

"  H'm.  Take  your  mouth  out  fr'm  under 
your  chin,  Clancy,"  says  th'  Old  Man.  "  It 
looks  better.  H'm.  Well,  go  along  with  ye, 
and  if  ye  get  into  trouble  ast  th'  Lord  to  have 
•  mercy  on  your  crazy  heads,  for  ye  know  well 
by  this  time  that  I  won't,"  he  says. 

With  that  he  signs  the  passes,  an'  that's 
where  he  let  us  all  in  for  it.  Yes,  sir,  me  and 
Terry  an'  th'  Old  Man  and  the  Regiment  and 
the  Little  Brown  Brother  and  the  C.  G.  all  had 
ours  comin'  right  then,  on'y  we  didn't  know 
about  it,  not  yet.  We  thought  we  was  just 
homeward  bound,  and  we  wanted  a  little  fun 
with  Maniller  to  make  up  for  the  deeprivations 
of  the  Samar  campaign.  We  got  it  all  right. 

"  H'm,"  says  the  Captain,  dealin'  us  the 
passes.  "  I'm  sorry  f'r  Maniller,  but  ye  have 
earned  a  little  reelaxation.  Don't  forget  you're 
f'r  guard  to-morrer,  Casey,"  he  says  to  me, 
an'  we  saluted  an'  hit  th'  trail. 

Terry  and  me  dumb  into  a  two-wheeled 
chicken-coop  wagon  outside  the  Barracks,  and 
th'  horse  not  bein'  only  boy's  size  we  lifted 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism     81 

him  by  th'  slings,  th'  pair  of  us,  and  just  nat 
urally  wandered  on  tiptoe  down  to  th'  New 
Bridge.  They  give  you  th'  biggest  schooner  of 
San  Magill  f'r  your  peseta  there.  New  Bridge 
is  th'  name.  Anybody  can  tell  you. 

We  had  some  beers,  and  then  we  went 
across  to  Mrs.  Smith's,  and  got  a  steak  that 
never  seen  a  tin  can,  and  then  we  went  back 
to  the  New  Bridge  and  met  up  with  some  more 
of  th'  Army.  There  was  an  Engineer't  could 
deal  himself  th'  coldest  hand  of  talk  I  ever 
bucked  up  against,  and  two  Coast  Artillerys, 
and  a  Marine,  an  Irishman  named  Schlei- 
macher,  that  Clancy  remembered  helpin'  to 
stuff  a  jade  idol  into  his  blouse,  up  in  Peking 
those  happy  days.  Maybe  there  was  others. 
I  don't  remember. 

I  don't  remember  a  whole  lot  of  things  about 
that  day.  Some  way,  the  beer  was  cold,  and 
along  in  the  middle  of  th'  afternoon  my 
thoughts  got  to  herdin'  close,  an'  it  was  more'n 
I  could  do  to  cut  some  of  th'm  out  of  th'  bunch 
an'  read  th'  brands  on  th'm.  There  must  a 
been  strays  around,  too,  for  all  of -a  sudden 
I  got  to  cry  in*  about  me  dear  ould  mither  an* 
th'  little  cabin — Me!  I  was  born  in  Spring 
field,  Massachusetts,  in  a  tenement,  and  I 


82  The  Little  Gods 

pulled  my  freight  for  Arizona  as  soon  as  I 
could  walk.  But  I  sure  was  cryin'  about  that 
thought,  whoever  it  belonged  to,  and  the  Engi 
neer  ast  me  what  th'  trouble  was,  and  I  told 
on  myself. 

"  Gentlemen  o'  France,"  says  he  —  I  ain't 
quotin'  him  exact,  f'r  I'm  no  college  graduate 
—  "  Gentlemen  o'  France,  and  Ireland,  what 
say  you  to  charterin'  a  couple  of  wagons,  large, 
glad  wagons  with  rubber  tires,  and  cajrryin' 
our  brother  out  to  refresh  his  homesick  eyes 
on  th'  emerald,  sunburnt  sod  of  th'  Luneta, 
whilst  Professor  Lovering's  gu-gu  band  flirts 
with  sweet  music  and  we  watches  th'  sunset 
glow  on  Mariveles  ?  " 

Yes,  sir,  right  off'n  th'  bat  he  showed  down 
a  hand  of  talk  like  that,  all  aces  an'  better. 
It  fazed  us  f'r  a  minute.  He  was  a  warm  boy, 
that  Engineer.  But  old  Terry  was  game. 

"  Son  of  th'  pick-axe  an'  th'  thebobolite," 
he  says,  startin'  to  play  up,  "  lead  on,"  he 
says,  "  that  is  —  if  —  if  ye  mean  go  to  th' 
band  concert,  we're  with  ye  while  th'  money 
lasts,"  he  finishes,  winded. 

So  we  gets  a  couple  of  victoriers,  two  horses 
apiece,  footmen  and  all,  and  strikes  for  th' 
Luneta,  makin'  full  as  much  show  as  any 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      83 

civilian  clerk  in  th'  Q.  M.  D.  More,  maybe, 
f'r  that  Irishman  Schleimacher  wants  to  put 
his  feet  up  on  th'  box.  We  tried  to  make  him 
ride  decent,  but  th'  Engineer  butted  in.  "  Let 
him  be,"  he  says.  "  Otherwise  what's  th'  use 
of  th'  footman,  anyway?"  So  Sly  kep'  them 
up  there,  and  I  reckon  we  attracted  a  lot  of 
attention  that  didn't  cost  us  a  cent. 

By  the  time  we  got  out  there  by  the  beach, 
th'  air  had  cleared  up  my  head  some,  and  I  sat 
up  and  began  to  take  notice.  And  about  the 
first  thing  I  noticed  hard  was  Terry.  He'd 
quit  talkin',  an'  there  was  a  hell  uv  a  disdain 
ful  look  on  that  two-foot  face  of  his,  and  he 
took  off  his  hat  to  the  flagpole  when  we  went 
by  it,  second  trip  round.  I'd  ought  to  have 
stopped  th'  game  right  then.  There's  two 
kinds  of  Irish,  if  y'  ever  noticed,  —  common 
wild  ones  that  generally  has  the  luck  to  meet 
Old  Trouble  when  she  comes  marchin'  down 
th'  street,  comp'ny  front;  and  th'  fancy  kind 
that  could  recruit  a  whole  bunch  o'  trouble 
right  in  th'  middle  of  Paco  bone-heap.  Ter 
ry's  that  last  kind,  and  when  he  gets  low- 
spirited  and  patriotic  and  full  of  beer,  it's  time 
to  hunt  for  the  tall  and  uncut. 

Well,  the  band  kep'  on  a  playin',  an'  th' 


84  The  Little  Gods 

sun  kep'  on  a  settin'  and  we  kep'  on  a  drivin' 
round  and  round  that  mangy  bunch  o'  grass, 
and  ev'ry  trip  Terry  got  glummer  and  glum 
mer.  After  a  while,  he  says  to  me :  "  Look 
at  th'  pretty  ladies,  Casey,  all  th'  pretty  ladies 
in  white  dresses  an'  talcum  powder,  if  not 
worse.  An'  spot  th'  gay  young  grafters  in 
th'  morgidged  rigs.  You  and  me  can't  speak 
to  th'  likes  of  them,  Casey.  We're  nothin' 
but  soldiers.  That's  all.  Just  soldiers,  gettin' 
it  in  th'  neck  for  fifteen-sixty  per.  Oh,  hell !  " 
he  says,  and  spits  hard  and  straight  at  a  swell 
native  in  white  clothes,  that  was  waitin'  for 
us  to  pass,  "  Look  at  him  with  shoes  on,  like 
a  white  man!  Ain't  there  a  ripple  o'  patriot 
ism  in  th'  whole  damned  outfit?  There's  th' 
old  flag  flyin'  up  above  th'm,  an'  they  never 
think  of  it.  Just  ride  around  and  flirt  with 
each  other,  and  let  natives  walk  around  with 
shoes  on,  like  white  men.  They  make  me 
sick.  I'm  on'y  a  soldier,  an'  I  suppose  th' 
Army  is  th'  on'y  place  f'r  lads  like  me  and 
you —  "  he  says. 

He's  ready  to  cry,  an'  th'  Engineer  butts  in 
to  change  th'  subjick. 

"  So  say  our  long-suffering  parents  and 
sweethearts,"  he  says. 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      85 

"  Pontoons,"  says  Terry,  talkin'  fr'm  about 
an  inch  below  his  stummick,  "  you're  a  lively 
lad  with  y'r  tongue,  but  ye  lack  dep'.  I  ain't 
known  ye  long,  an'  I  hope  I  ain't  to  know  ye 
much  longer,  but  I  can  see  ye  lack  more  dep' 
'n  any  man  I  ever  met.  There's  moments  in 
th'  life  of  a  real  man  ye  couldn't  no  more  un 
derstand  'n  a  Chinese  storekeeper.  An'  this  is 
one  of  th'm,"  he  says,  pullin'  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes. 

He  didn't  say  no  more,  but  when  th'  nigger 
band  struck  up  th'  Umpty-dee-he-hee-/z£££  mu 
sic,  to  show  it  was  all  over  now,  Terry  got  up 
slow  and  stiff,  and  threw  a  chest  and  squeezed 
his  hat  to  his  left  breast  and  stood  there  in 
th'  rig,  lookin'  considerable  like  some  gen'rals 
you  and  me've  seen.  He  kep'  on  standin' 
there  after  th'  music  had  stopped,  and  after  a 
while  it  got  tiresome,  and  th'  Engineer  told 
th'  cochero  to  sigue  ahead. 

"  Hindi!  "  says  Terry.  "  Don't  you  believe 
it.  You're  like  all  th'  rest,"  he  says  to  us, 
plumb  disgusted.  "  You  call  yourselves  sol 
diers,  and  all  you  think  about  is  just  chow. 
Chow,  at  a  moment  like  this!  There  ain't  a 
ripple  of  patriotism  in  the  whole  bunch  of  ye 
big  enough  to  grease  a  twenty-two  cartridge." 


86  The  Little  Gods 

And  he  made  us  drive  up  and  down  th'  Male- 
con  twice  in  th'  moonlight  before  he'd  go  to 
supper. 

While  we  was  chowin',  he  kep'  gettin'  grum- 
per  an'  grumper,  and  after  supper,  when  th' 
Engineer  wanted  to  be  gettin'  back  to  quar 
ters  —  he  was  livin'  over'n  old  Santiaygo  — 
Terry  just  busted  loose. 

"  Pontoons,"  he  says,  "  I  t'ought  you  was 
a  man.  You're  big  enough  f'r  one.  Run  away 
an'  join  th'  Naytional  Guard.  Go  an'  be  a 
pinkety-pink  Vol'nteer,  an'  tell  th'  nurs'ry- 
sergeant  not  to  wake  you  up  without  your 
p'rmission.  Go  an'  dog-rob  f'r  a  c'mission. 
Go  an'  do  this  an'  do  that,"  he  says,  thinkin' 
up  a  whole  lot  of  places  f'r  th'  Engineer  to 
go,  till  fin'lly  he  got  so  ugly-ugly  we  took  him 
into  th'  New  Bridge  again,  and  bought  him 
a  drink  to  calm  him  down. 

It  didn't  do  no  good.  He  kep'  one  eye  on 
his  glass  an'  th'  other  on  the  Engineer,  an' 
slung  hot  air  till  you  wouldn't  think  a  big  guy 
like  that  would  stand  f'r  it.  But  th'  Engineer 
just  grins  and  drinks  his  beer. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  says,  "  gentlemen  and 
friend  Clancy,  there's  a  hard-hearted  son  of 
Plymouth  Rock  commands  th'  comp'ny  that'll 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      87 

be  roundin'  up  all  th'  poor  little  devils  to  check 
roll-call  six  times  a  day  before  he's  been  dead 
a  month.  He'll  mult  me  a  month's  pay  f  r 
missin'  Retreat  to-night  —  not  that  th'  pleas 
ure  of  enjoyin'  you  ain't  worth  th'  price,"  he 
says  to  Terry,  "  but  I  might  just  as  well  miss 
Taps  now,  an'  get  a  month  in  th'  jug  besides. 
What's  th'  use  of  freedom  without  money? 
To-night  we  have  both,  and  we'll  pour  them 
out  like  blood,  to  soothe  th'  feelin's  of  a  friend 
whose  heart  is  sad  to  think  th'  flag  which 
decked  his  cradle  now  floats  over  th'  school- 
houses  of  th'  brave  but  ex-tremely  eelusive 
Fillypeeners." 

Terry's  mouth  sort  of  hung  open  when  th' 
Engineer  struck  his  pace,  but  he  brightened  up 
quick  as  he  got  on  to  the  drift  of  it. 

"  Ye  read  my  feelin's  like  a  padre"  he  says 
to  him,  "  an'  I  like  your  build.  If  you  was 
on'y  in  th'  comp'ny,  it's  many  a  fight  we'd  have 
together,  an'  we  may  have  one  even  yet. 
Here's  lookin'  at  ye!  You're  a  soldier,  you 
are,  and  a  gentleman.  Here's  how." 

Of  course  we  had  a  beer  on  the  Engineer 
after  that,  and  two  on  the  Coast  Artillerys, 
who'd  been  sayin'  little  all  day  and  drinkin' 
hearty.  Th'  poor  devils  get  that  way,  bein' 


88  The  Little  Gods 

stationed  mostly  near  big  cities  like  Portland, 
Maine,  an'  Guam,  where  chanstes  are  few  since 
th'  Christian  Temp'rance  persons  got  their 
strangle-holt.  And  then  our  A.  O.  H.  friend, 
Schleimacher,  sets  them  up  an'  says :  "  Fellers, 
a  sailor  like  me  —  " 

"Don't  you  miscall  yourself;  you're  more 
of  soldier  than  a  heap  of  th'  muts  I  herd  with," 
says  Terry,  takin'  a  sling  at  us,  "  but  ye  do 
loot  like  a  sailor,"  he  says. 

"  I'm  a  soldier  at  sea,  all  right,"  says  th' 
Marine.  "  I'm  seasick  as  an  Army  Transport 
ev'ry  trip.  I  was  talkin'  when  you  butted  in. 
A  sailor  like  me  don't  have  many  look-ins  f'r 
what  you  might  call  reefined  amusements. 
Cavite's  mostly  give  up  to  drill  an'  cock-fights. 
I  moves  we  all  go  to  a  nigger  theayter  to 
night,  where  there's  sure  to  be  plenty  doin', 
such  as  it  is." 

We  went,  victoriers  and  all,  and  Old 
Trouble  must  a  been  howlin'  f'r  joy  to  see  us 
comin'.  When  we  got  there,  there  was  a  big 
crowd  outside,  and  we  got  wedged  up  against 
one  of  th'  stands  where  th'  girls  sell  bananas 
and  cigarettes  an'  such  truck.  One  of  th'm  — 
a  pretty  good-lookin'  girl  she  was,  too  — 
smiles  at  Terry,  and  he  opens  up  a  conversa- 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      89 

tion,  and  fin'lly  he  says  to  me :  "  'Tis  a  long 
time  since  I've  et  a  hard-boiled  egg.  I'm  goin' 
to  have  a  couple  if  they're  fresh. 

"  Frescoes?  "  he  asts,  pointin'  to  the  eggs. 
"  Wavoes  frescoes? "  Fresco  means  cool  in 
common  bamboo  Spanish,  but  he  was  usin'  a 
private  Castilian  brand  of  his  own.  "  Wavoes 
frescoes? "  he  asts.  "  Is  the  eggs  cool  ? " 
Th'  girl  laughs. 

"  Como  helados,  chiquito  mio,"  she  says, 
laughin'.  "  Like  ice,  my  honey-bunch,"  she 
says. 

"  Give  me  two,  then,  an'  keep  th'  change," 
says  Terry.  "  Dos!  You're  a  neat  little 
gu-gu,"  he  says,  holdin'  up  his  two  fingers. 

He  broke  one  of  his  eggs,  and  he  dropped 
it  quick. 

"  Ye  little  merrocker-leather  daughter  o' 
sin  and  shame,"  he  says  to  th'  girl  —  I  ain't 
quotin'  him  exact  neither  —  "ye  little  two- 
f  r-a-cent  bunch  o'  calicker,"  he  says,  mixin' 
in  some  other  words  on  the  side,  "  bein'  a  lady, 
I  can't  say  what  I  think  of  you,  but  it  ain't 
such  a  hell  uv  a  much.  Don't  ye  grin  at  me! 
I  might  have  et  that!  If  it  had  on'y  knowed 
enough  to  peep,"  he  says  to  us,  "  it  needn't 
never  have  got  boiled  alive.  Wavoes  frescoes! 


90  The  Little  Gods 

Damn  a  country  where  a  pretty  girl  will  lie 
to  you  f'r  half  a  cent.  I'll  keep  th'  other  one 
till  I'm  sure  hungry,"  he  says,  an'  slips  his 
other  egg  into  his  pocket. 

He  kep'  on  mutterin'  to  himself  while  he 
was  squeezin'  up  to  th'  little  window,  and  a 
good  tight  squeeze  we  had.  Y'  see,  old  Ma 
Trouble1  had  c'llected  a  special  crowd  f'r  the 
occasion,  but  we  never  noticed  that.  We  just 
hiked  ahead,  and  havin'  plenty  of  money  — 
though  little  of  it  was  left  by  that  time  —  we 
bought  a  box,  and  went  in. 

Maybe  you've  never  been  in  a  gu-gu  theay- 
ter.  Th'  floor  is  th'  ground,  an'  that's  the 
orchestray.  Around  that  runs  a  row  of  boxes 
without  any  fronts  or  backs  or  tops  or  sides. 
Behind  them  is  th'  balcony.  Well,  we  swell 
guys  pikes  up  to  our  box  and  starts  in  to  be 
th'  real  thing.  In  one  of  them  theayters  you 
want  to  keep  your  hat  on  till  th'  curtain  rises, 
an'  smoke  cigarettes  an'  look  round  at  th' 
women.  They  expects  it.  That  was  easy  f'r 
us,  an'  th'  Engineer  gets  up  a  two-handed 
game  of  eyes  with  a  chocolate-colored  dame 

1  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Private  Casey  himself  seems 
half  aware  that  some  maliciously  mirthful  over-power  is  con 
cerned  in  his  adventures.  But  why  does  he  feminize  it  ? 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      91 

that  begins  to  look  entanglin'.  But  Terry 
broke  it  up. 

"Turn  round,"  he  says.  "Cut  it  out. 
She'll  be  settin'  in  your  lap  in  a  minute,  an' 
stealin'  th'  buttons  off'n  your  blouse.  Don't 
ye  trust  any  of  th'm,"  he  says.  "  Wavoes 
frescoes! " 

And  right  there  old  Ma  plays  her  joker. 
That  drayma  we'd  come  so  far  to  see  was 
called  "  Kahapon  — "  but  maybe  you  don't 
sabe  hablar  Fillypeener.  "  Yesterday,  To-day, 
and  To-morrer,"  was  th'  name.  Th'  first  act 
was  Yesterday.  That  was  Spain.  There  was 
nothin'  much  doin'  f'r  a  while.  Just  talkin' 
slow  an'  keepin'  your  hand  on  your  knife,  a 
good  deal  like  that  Greaser  show  that  come 
to  San  Antone  once.  But  after  a  while,  a 
priest  showed  up.  He  was  one  of  th'  Friars, 
and  they  knocked  him  down  first  off,  an'  then 
they  kicked  him  all  over  th'  stage,  and  sat  on 
him  and  raised  a  rough-house  with  him  for 
fair.  Them  Frailes  must  a  been  a  long-suf- 
ferin'  bunch,  Yesterday. 

They'd  just  tossed  him  out  of  sight,  when 
a  lot  of  Spanish  soldiers  come  on  and  th'  real 
shootin'  begun.  Well,  sir,  th'  Fillypeeners 
cleaned  them  Greasers  out  for  keeps,  an'  th' 


92  The  Little  Gods 

little  leadin'  lady  grabs  th'  Spanish  flag  an' 
rips  it  up  th'  middle  an'  promenades  on  th' 
pieces.  Th'  house  went  wild  at  that,  and  while 
they  was  clappin'  an'  shoutin',  the  sun  of  Filly- 
peener  liberty  begun  to  rise  at  th'  back  of  the 
stage.  It  was  a  shaky  old  sun  with  three  K's 
on  its  face,  like  freckles.  I  see  Terry  fum- 
blin'  in  his  pocket  for  somethin',  and  then,  just 
as  th'  sun  is  gettin'  fairly  up,  somethin'  puts 
th'  poor  thing's  eye  out,  and  th'  curtain  falls 
quick. 

"  Wavoes  frescoes! "  Terry  sings  out. 

Well,  sir,  things  livened  up  somethin'  won 
derful  just  about  then.  All  th'  natives  in  th' 
place,  about  a  thousand  of  th'm,  begun  to  yowl 
like  cats  and  crowd  toward  our  box,  and  half 
a  dozen  Spaniards,  or  half-Spaniards,  was 
yellin'  "  Brayvo  el  Americano!"  and  some 
Americans  that  was  scattered  round  th'  audi 
ence  was  movin'  up  at  th'  double  without  sayin' 
anythin'. 

"  Nothin'  doin',  boys,"  Terry  yells  to  them, 
standin'  up,  and  a  big  man  he  looked. 
"  Scat !  "  he  says  to  th'  natives.  "  Sigue 
Dagupan,  you  Kitty  catty  punanos,  before  I 
chew  you  up,"  he  says,  and  makes  like  he  was 
goin'  to  jump  down  among  th'm. 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism     93 

They  scatted  all  right,  and  we  pulled  Terry 
down,  quiet  enough,  on'y  his  shoulders  was 
twitchin'  under  his  blouse.  "  Casey,"  he  says 
to  me,  "  I  always  took  the  Fillypeeners  f'r 
Catholics  till  I  seen  th'm  maul  that  padre,  an' 
I've  been  gentle  with  th'm  on  that  account. 
God  help  th'  next  one  I  lay  foot  to." 

"  I  mistrust  this  is  one  of  th'  seditious  plays 
we  read  about,"  th'  Engineer  whispers  to  me, 
"  and  I  reckon  To-day  will  be  worse  than  Yes 
terday,  f'r  the  big  man.  Hadn't  we  better  get 
him  out  of  here?  " 

"  His  patriotism  is  sure  ripplin'  lively,"  I 
says. 

"  An'  did  ye  never  read  th'  po'm,"  says  th' 
lad,  "  about  th'  pebble  dropped  in  th'  middle 
of  th'  ocean,  an'  th'  ripples  it  kicked  up  ?  " 

"  I  never  read  no  po'try,"  I  says,  "  if  I  see 
it  first,  but  something'll  be  kicked  up  f'r  keeps, 
if  Terry  ever  drops  down  in  that  crowd." 
And  then  th'  house  quieted  down,  an'  th'  cur 
tain  went  up  f'r  th'  next  act. 

To-day  was  us,  th'  Americans.  A  little  gen- 
'ral  with  pompydoor  hair  —  that  looked  natch- 
ral  —  walked  round  f'r  a  while,  hablaring  to 
his  crowd,  and  then  six  men  in  khaki  came  in, 
carryin'  th'  flag,  and  th'  other  gang  began  to 


94  The  Little  Gods 

shoot  them  up.  It  warn't  pretty  to  watch, 
on'y  we  didn't  have  time  to  watch  it  much. 
Th'  Engineer  an'  me  had  one  of  Terry's  arms, 
and  Schleimacher  was  tryin'  to  keep  a  hand 
over  his  mouth  and  not  get  bit.  Th'  talk  he 
was  tryin'  to  make  was  shockin'.  But  we  held 
him  all  right  till  th'  Americans  was  lyin'  round 
th'  stage  picturesque  and  dead  as  hell.  An' 
then  th'  little  girl  grabs  th'  flag,  and  you  could 
hear  the  audience  draw  a  long  breath.  ' 

I  didn't  think  she'd  dare  to  do  it,  but  I  sup 
pose  it  was  on  th'  programme  and  they  didn't 
want  to  give  no  money  back.  Sure  enough  she 
spits  on  it  an'  tosses  it  on  th'  floor,  and  then  — 
well,  Terry  brushes  the  Engineer  and  me  out 
of  his  way,  and  steps  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
box  and  makes  his  little  speech.  "  Boys !  "  he 
yells,  "  remember  Balangiga  an'  th'  rest  of  th' 
tricks  they've  played  us.  That's  th'  flag,"  and 
he  hops  down  to  the  floor. 

"  Come  on,"  I  yells  to  the  Engineer.  "  If 
he  gets  on  that  stage  alone,  it'll  be  murder," 
and  down  we  jumps. 

It  was  like  slippin'  off  a  ford  into  quick 
water.  The  women  was  screechin'  and  the 
men  howlin'  and  the  boys  behind  us  was 
laughin'  and  shoutin'  and  bangin'  every  head 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      95 

that  came  their  way,  and  some  fool  begun  to 
let  off  a  gun  into  the  roof.  But  th'  Engineer 
and  me  just  kep'  on  down  that  aisle  after 
Terry.  Just  when  he  reached  th'  musicians, 
the  curtain  came  down,  but  he  picks  a  fiddler, 
fiddle  and  all,  and  tosses  him  into  th'  rotten 
old  cloth  like  a  sack  of  beans,  and  goes  through 
th'  hole  after  him. 

But  it  stopped  him  up  enough  so't  the  Engi 
neer  and  me  dumb  through  onto  the  stage 
right  behind  him.  We  piled  onto  him  just  as 
he  was  makin'  a  rush  f'r  a  bunch  of  actors, 
and  there  was  a  good  lively  mix-up  f'r  a  few 
seconds.  Men  began  to  come  through  the  cur 
tain  in  a  dozen  places,  and  th'  racket  in  the 
house  doubled  up.  I  don't  know  just  every- 
thin'  that  happened,  f'r  th'  minute  Terry  gave 
in  a  bit,  we  drug  him  out  th'  back  way  and 
cut  up  an  alley,  never  stoppin'  to  find  out  where 
Schleimacher  and  the  Artillerys  was.  And  I 
s'pose  them  victoriers  is  out  front  there  yet, 
waitin'  for  their  money.  And  I'll  bet  there 
never  was  no  To-morrer  in  that  drayma,  not 
that  night. 

We  got  out  onto  the  corner  where  there's 
a  saloon,  and  then  we  stopped  to  listen.  Same 
as  always,  the  minute  Terry  couldn't  do  no 


96  The  Little  Gods 

more  harm,  he  was  gentle  as  a  child. 
"  There's  patriotism  around  all  right,"  he  says, 
cockin'  his  head  toward  the  racket  back  at  the 
theayter.  "  It  on'y  needs  somebody  to  stir  it 
up.  I'll  bet  anybody  five  to  one  in  beers  that 
somebody  gets  hurt  out  of  this  before  it's 
over,"  he  says,  as  a  extry  loud  howl  and  a 
ripple  of  shots  busts  loose  fr'm  the  theayter, 
and  a  patrol-wagon  comes  ting-tingin'  it  down 
the  street.  "  I  make  it  beer,"  says  Terry, 
"  because  I'm  thirsty." 

"  Take  you  and  lose,"  says  th'  Engineer. 
"  Step  in  here  and  we'll  pay  up  one  of  th'm 
now." 

So  we  stepped  in  there,  and  we  stepped  in 
sev'ral  other  places,  till  we  sort  of  got  th' 
habit.  I  reckon  we  traveled  all  over  Maniller 
after  that,  and  had  beers  with  about  half  th' 
Army.  Th'  last  thing  I  remember,  Terry  had 
got  patriotic  again,  an'  was  sayin'  a  po'm 
about  th'  flag.  Then  my  thoughts  got  to  ad- 
vancin'  in  regimental  formation,  and  I  sort  of 
went  to  sleep. 

Th'  dinky  little  guard-mount  march  was 
goin'  next  mornin'  —  I  reckon  it  was  next 
mornin'  —  when  I  woke  up,  so  I  knew  some- 
thin'  was  wrong.  I  reached  f'r  my  rifle,  me 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      97 

bein'  warned  for  guard  that  day,  and  I  found 
I  was  in  th'  guard-house  a'ready,  and  Terry 
was  poundin'  his  ear  on  a  bunk  beside  me. 
My  head  felt  like  a  caraboo  had  walked  on 
it,  an'  I  yelled  to  the  sentry  for  water. 

"  The  ice-water's  over'n  th'  corner,  same  as 
always,"  he  says,  peekin'  in  through  th'  bars. 
"  You  sure  ain't  forgotten  this  quick  ?  " 

"  What  did  we  do  ?  "  I  asts  him,  sizzlin' 
down  about  a  quart  in  one  gulp. 

"What  didn't  ye  do?  Pers'nally  ye  did 
up  three  of  us  while  we  was  puttin'  you  in  th' 
cooler  here.  Ye  came  home  singin'  in  a  car- 
rermatter  'bout  3  A.  M.,  an'  Terry  wanted  to 
bring  th'  cochero  in  an'  kneel  him  in  front  of 
th'  flagpole  an'  cut  his  head  off.  You  was 
tryin'  to  borry  a  bay'net  f'r  th'  ceremony. 
But  I  guess  you'll  get  to  rememberin'  most 
all  you  did,  and  some  more,  before  th'  Old 
Man  gets  through  with  you.  He's  had  a 
squad  of  cops  and  an  orderly  fr'm  headquar 
ters  to  call  on  him  a'ready  this  mornin'.  Fr'm 
what  they  said,  I  should  judge  you  tried  to 
bust  up  the  little  old  Civil  Gov'ment  and  clean 
up  the  L.  B.  B.  Don't  be  bashful  about  th' 
water,"  he  says.  "  It's  all  f'r  you." 

While   I   was   sloshin'    ice-water   over   my 


98  The  Little  Gods 

head,  Terry  woke  up.  We  sat  on  the  edges 
of  our  bunks  and  talked  it  all  over.  We  didn't 
feel  real  affectionate.  We  was  still  talkin', 
sort  of  aimless  but  effective,  when  the  guard 
came  an'  took  us  out  to  the  orderly-room  and 
lined  us  up  in  front  of  th'  Old  Man. 

"  H'm,"  he  says,  swingin'  back  in  his  chair. 
"  Do  ye  desire  to  call  any  witnesses  to  prove 
ye  didn't  do  it?" 

"  No,  sir,"  we  both  says  quick.  We'd 
known  him  f'r  some  time. 

"  H'm.  That's  lucky  f'r  you,"  he  says.  "  I 
don't  mind  havin'  men  try  to  run  my  guard 
at  three  in  th'  mornin',"  he  says,  talkin'  to  the 
ceilin'  like  an  old  friend,  "  nor  tryin'  to  mur 
der  a  coachman  on  my  p'rade-ground,  nor 
blackin'  th'  eye  of  th'  sergeant  of  th'  guard. 
H'm.  Ye've  got  to  ex-pect  them  little  things 
fr'm  real  soldiers,  of  course,"  he  says.  "  H'm. 
But  when  I  have  to  drive  away  six  policemen 
before  breakfast  who've  came  to  arrest  two 
of  my  men  f'r  assaultin'  several  hundred  na 
tives  all  to  onct,  I've  got  to  draw  th'  line. 
There's  eddy-toryals  about  them  men  in  all  th' 
native  papers  this  mornin',  or  so  I  am  in 
formed  accordin'  to  th'  best  of  my  ability,  and 
in  th'  Cable-News.  A  brutal  attack  on  peace- 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      99 

able,  well-disposed  Fillypeeners,  and  on  hun 
dreds  of  th'm  at  that,  is  an  assault  to  the  foun 
dations  of  gover'ment  which  I  can't  overlook. 
H'm." 

"  She  spit  on  th'  flag,  sir,"  says  Terry. 

"  Th'  Colonel  wanted  them  men  for  a 
G.  C.  M.  this  mornin',"  says  the  Old  Man, 
"  to  say  nothin'  of  what  th'  civil  authorities 
want  th'm  for,  and  that's  a  whole  lot.  But 
there  ain't  been  a  gen'ral  pris'ner  out  of  this 
comp'ny  for  five  year  now,  and  I  persuaded 
the  Commandin'  Officer  that  I  could  attend  to 
th'  case.  H'm.  What  do  you  think  about 
that,  Casey?" 

"  Yessir,"  I  says. 

"H'm.     And  Clancy?" 

"  Yessir,"  Terry  says. 

"  H'm,"  says  he,  "  y'r  confidence  in  me  is 
flatterin'.  I'll  try  not  to  disappoint  ye,"  he 
says,  and  gets  up  an'  goes  limpin'  round  th' 
room  on  his  Tientsin  leg.  He  walks  around 
there  f'r  five  minutes,  anyway,  before  he  says 
a  word.  Fin'lly  he  stops  and  looks  out  of  the 
window.  "  A  very  pretty  p'rade-ground  we 
have  here,  Mr.  Boyd,"  he  says  to  the  Lieuten 
ant. 

"  Very   pretty,    sir,"    says   the   Lieutenant, 


100  The  Little  Gods 

puzzled  to  know  what  the  Old  Man  would 
be  carin'  about  parade-grounds  just  then. 

He  hadn't  served  with  him  as  long  as  me 
and  Clancy  had.  You  remember  how  the  old 
barracks  is  built,  in  a  hollow  square  round  a 
p'rade  big  enough  f'r  a  regimental  corral,  with 
th'  post  flagstaff  stickin'  up  in  th'  middle,  and 
lookin'  about  three  hundred  foot  high? 

"  H'm,"  says  th'  Captain,  gazin'  out  of  his 
window.  "  Very  pretty,  indeed.  But  do  you 
notice  how  the  grass  is  growin'  up  between 
th'  flagstones  in  the  paths?  That's  not  neat, 
Mr.  Boyd.  That's  not  fittin'  in  a  place  where 
the  shadder  of  th'  Flag  must  fall,"  he  says, 
glancin'  at  us.  "  H'm.  They  tell  me  you're 
becomin'  somethin'  of  a  patriot,  Clancy?" 

"  Yessir,"  says  Terry. 

"H'm.     And  Casey?" 

"  Yessir,"  I  says. 

"  That's  fine,"  says  th'  Old  Man.  "  That's 
a  pleasant  surprise.  H'm.  But  I  hear  ye  have 
been  wastin'  y'r  patriotism  in  wild  firin',"  he 
says.  "  It's  too  vallyouble  to  waste,  'specially 
in  Maniller.  I  must  try  to  help  you  make  it 
flow  in  a  gentle,  steady  stream.  H'm,  If  you 
let  it  fly  in  chunks,  it  closely  resimbles  an- 
nichy,"  he  says,  "  'specially  in  Maniller.  H'm. 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism      101 

Sentry,  march  these  men  to  the  p'rade  and  see 
that  they  pluck  the  grass,  all  the  grass,  be 
tween  the  stones,  tie  it  in  bundles  of  fifty 
stalks,  neat  bundles,  and  place  the  bundles  at 
the  foot  of  the  post  flagstaff.  H'm.  And, 
Sentry,  see  that  after  depositin'  each  bundle, 
they  retire  twelve  paces  and  salute  their  flag 
before  resumin'  work.  After  you  have  cleaned 
th'  p'rade,"  he  says  to  us,  "  I  trust  I  shall  be 
able  to  find  some  other  work  for  you.  If  ye 
either  of  you  feel  y'r  patriotism  flaggin'  under 
th'  strain,  just  tell  th'  sentry  and  he  will  bring 
you  in  to  me  and  I  will  try  to  revive  it.  H'm. 
You  understand,  Sentry  ?  " 

"  Yessir,"  says  th'  sentry.  His  mouth  was 
twistin'  up  on  him,  an'  th'  Lieutenant's,  an' 
everybody's,  but  just  us  and  the  Old  Man's. 
He  looks  sort  of  surprised. 

"  Is  they  any  jokes  around  here  I  ain't  no 
ticed  ?  "  he  says.  "  I  do  love  a  joke.  H'm. 
You  seen  any,  Clancy  ?  " 

"  Nossir,"  says  Terry,  pretty  sick. 

The  sentry  grinned  all  th'  time  he  was 
marchin'  us  out,  an'  the  news  spread  quick, 
and  they  was  grins  to  meet  us  all  the  way. 
An'  then  th'  sentry  begins  to  guy  us. 

"  You've  skipped  a  stalk  on  y'r  left  flank, 


102  The  Little  Gods 

Clancy,"  he  says.  "  I  shall  have  to  report  it. 
And  tie  th'm  in  neat  bundles  of  twelve  stalks, 
is  the  orders,  retire  fifty  paces,  and  salute  th' 
flag." 

"  Cut  it  out,  Skinny,"  says  Terry.  "  He 
said  bundles  of  fifty.  I  heard  him  m'self." 

"  Bundles  o'  hell  an'  fifty  paces,"  says 
Skinny.  "  You  can  go  an'  ast  him  if  ye  won't 
believe  me.  Wouldn't  ye  like,  perhaps,  to  go 
an'  ast  him?  I'll  march  ye  in  with  pleasure." 

"  Have  y'r  laugh  while  ye've  got  a  place 
f'r  it,"  says  Terry.  "  I'll  make  y'r  face  over 
for  ye,  ye  hyeener,  when  I  get  a  chanst." 

"  Intimidatin'  a  sentry,"  says  Skinny,  but 
he  shut  up,  far  as  talk  went.  On'y  he  made  a 
bugle  of  his  nose,  an'  begun  to  hum  little  tunes 
through  it,  and  then  th'  crowd  begun  driftin' 
out  on  th'  verandahs  and  caught  on,  and  all 
you  could  hear  was  that  whole  damn  parrot- 
faced  battalion  blowin'  through  their  noses, 
Umpty  -  dee  -  he  -  hee  -  heee  -  he  -  he  -  hee- 
hum-hum-/mw/ 

Terry  and  me  said  nothin'  and  picked  busy 
f'r  a  while,  but  about  th'  hundre'th  bundle  th' 
hot  stones  and  th'  sun  an'  yesterday's  beer  an' 
th'  crowd  loafin'  in  th'  cool  verandahs  an' 
ev'rything  else  all  took  holt  of  me  to  onct. 


A  Little  Ripple  of  Patriotism    103 

"  You're  an  ornament  to  th'  Service/'  I 
says,  tryin'  to  crawl  into  th'  shadder  of  the 
pole.  'Twas  about  a  mile  long  and  an  inch 
wide. 

"  Stow  y'r  face,"  says  Terry,  tyin'  a  bundle 
with  a  thumb  big  as  three  of  it. 

"  I'd  enjoy  tellin'  you  what  I  think  of  you," 
I  says,  "  on'y  I  can't  think  of  it  all  to  onct. 
How's  y'r  patriotism  ripplin'  now?"  I  says. 
"Looka  th'  Flag,  th'  dear  old  Flag,  floatin' 
up  above  y'r  crazy  head." 

Terry  swallers  hard.  "  Casey,"  he  says, 
"  I  may  uv  let  ye  in  f 'r  this,  but  —  "  He 
picks  up  his  little  bundle  and  carries  it  over 
to  th'  foot  of  th'  pole.  Then  he  falls  back 
and  salutes.  Then  he  comes  over  to  me,  an' 
his  face  was  blossomin'  into  a  grin!  Yessir, 
there  was  a  hole  in  them  rugged  features  of 
his  you  could've  shoved  a  blanket-roll  into. 
"  Oh,  Casey,"  he  says,  "  Casey,  man,  if  th' 
Old  Boy  soaks  it  to  us  this  way  f'r  what  we 
done,  wouldn't  ye,  oh,  wouldn't  ye  just  like 
to  see  what  he'd  a  done  to  that  theayter,  if 
he  was  runnin'  this  little  old  town  ?  " 

An'  thinkin'  of  that,  I  grinned  too. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE   SUPERFALOUS    MAN 

I  CAME  back,  but  I  am  not  certain  that  I 
had  ever  left  the  old  temple  of  Tzin  Piaou. 
I  roused,  then,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  had 
been  asleep.  However  it  may  have  been,  I 
was  conscious  of  being  there  in  the  temple  of 
Tzin  Piaou  for  a  moment,  long  enough  to 
observe  that  my  old  heathen  priest,  half  re 
clining  on  his  slab,  was  thoughtfully  fingering 
a  hard  lump  in  his  girdle,  just  over  the  pit  of 
his  stomach. 

But  the  moment  he  saw  me  looking  at  him, 
he  made  an  imperative  little  gesture,  and  — 

"  Tell  th'  Professor  that  other  one,  Casey," 
a  husky  voice  commanded.  "  You  know. 
Th'  day  we  lost  th'  friend  o'  Sly's." 

Thereupon  the  even,  drawling,  dryly  hu 
morous  voice  began  to  speak.  This  is  what  it 
said  this  time: 

"  An'  then  Terry  says,  '  You're  too  skinny 
to  fight,  an'  you  ain't  big  enough  to  kill,  an' 


The  Superfalous  Man  105 

I  wouldn't  feel  much  lonesome  if  you  was 
somewheres  else.  You're  what  /  call  super- 
falous.' '  The  voice  dwelt  on  the  magnificent 
polysyllable  lovingly.  "  An'  th'  mayreen  hobo, 
he  lays  his  head  down  on  th'  table  an'  weeps 
some  weeps  into  his  glass.  It  was  empty.  It 
always  was.  '  That's  th'  wye  it  gaos  with  me,' 
he  says.  '  I  can't  never  myke  no  friends.  F'r 
twenty  year  I've  been  sylin'  th'  seas  fr'm  the 
North  Paole  to  th'  South,  fr'm  th'  East  Paole 
to  th'  West,  chysin  meridiums  fr'm  wyve  to 
wyve,  lookin'  f'r  a  friend.  But  ev'rywhere  I 
gaos  — ' 

" '  Hell,'  says  Terry,  '  if  you  feel  that  bad 
about  it,  we'll  have  one  more.  Casey,'  he  says 
to  me,  '  is  they  an  East  Pole  ?  It  sounds  rea- 
s'nable,  some  way.'  An'  then,"  the  voice 
mused  blissfully,  "  we  had  th'  tamarin'  cock 
tails,  an'  then  we  went  to  ride  with  the  acci 
dental  caraboo.  That  was  a  batty  day." 

"  Ain't  I  never  told  you  about  that  day  ?  " 
Suddenly  the  voice  was  coy.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
dast  to  tell,"  it  murmured.  "  Local  23  o'  th' 
Christian  Temp'rance  Union'll  be  gettin'  after 
me  f'r  makin'  it  look  like  th'  Army  still  drunk. 
I  don't  want  to  spread  no  false  impressions. 
Ev'rybody  knows  that  since  th'  vile  canteen 


106  The  Little  Gods 

was  took  away,  an'  we  was  give  a  real  chance 
to  lead  th'  sinful  life,  there  ain't  one  soldier 
in  ten  would  even  pass  a  saloon,  willin'ly. 
No,  sir,"  the  voice  remarked  thoughtfully,  "  I 
don't  reckon  there's  more'n  one  in  twenty  in 
th'  whole  Army  would  let  a  s'loon  get  by  him, 
if  he  had  to  walk  a  mile  out  of  his  road. 

"  Who  this  superfalous  man  was,"  said  the 
voice,  "/  don*  know.  An'  where  we  was, 
I've  been  tryin'  to  find  out  ever  since.  We 
started  in  on  beer,  but  we  switched  to  th' 
tamarin'  cocktails,  an'  we  ended  in  th'  Lord 
knows  what.  Don't  you  never  drink  a  tam 
arin'  cocktail,  'nless  you  want  Local  23 
startin'  a  grand  guard  patrol  across  your 
trail. 

"  That  day  begun,"  the  voice  continued, 
"  with  a  terrible  painful  talk  me  an'  Terry  had 
with  th'  Old  Man.  It  was  th'  summer  we 
laid  in  Maniller  after  th'  Samar  campaign,  an' 
me  an'  Terry  an'  the  Irishman  named  Schlei- 
macher  had  that  patriotic  go  with  th'  gu-gu 
theayter.  That  coincident  shook  the  Old 
Man's  faith  in  us  way  down  to  th'  roots,  an' 
f  r  weeks  afterwards  he  kep'  us  doin'  double 
guard  an'  double  kitchen  police  an'  stunts  like 
that  till  we  was  all  wore  out.  So  this  mornin' 


The  Superfalous  Man  107 

we  bucks  up  an'  tells  him  we  needs  some  more 
passes  an'  a  day  off. 

"'H'm,'  says  the  Old  Man.  'If  I  done 
my  duty  by  sersiety,  you  two'd  never  get  out 
together,  less'n  one  was  in  a  submarine  an'  th' 
other  in  a  b'loon,  and  then  I'll  bet,'  he  says, 
'  you'd  manage  to  get  your  trails  tangled 
some  ways.  H'm.  Who  am  I  to  butt  into 
the  stars  in  their  courses  and  get  a  sore  head? 
I  can't  keep  ye  in  quarters  no  longer ;  y'r  luck 
at  poker  is  causin'  too  many  hard  feelin's. 
An'  I  don't  dass  to  let  ye  out  sep'rate,  f'r  each 
of  ye  needs  th'  other  one  to  bring  him  home. 
H'm/  He  gives  us  th'  passes  an'  then,  just 
when  we  thought  we  was  saved  at  last,  he 
calls  us  back.  '  How  much  money  have  ye  got, 
anyway  ?  '  he  asts. 

"  We  hates  to  name  th'  size.  Th'  cards  had 
run  favorable  since  last  pay-day. 

"  '  That  had  ought  to  keep  ye  in  fines  f'r 
quite  a  spell,'  he  says,  when  we  told  him. 
'  H'm.  Give  it  here.  I'll  help  ye  save  it.' 

"  We  hands  over,  an'  he  peels  two  skinny 
little  bills  off  them  nice  fat  rolls.  '  I'll  let  ye 
have  five  apiece/  he  says.  *  That  makes  three 
dollars  f'r  chow,  an'  a  dollar  to  hire  carrer- 
matters,  an'  ten  beers  apiece.  Ten  is  all  ye 


108  The  Little  Gods 

need.  Y'r  stummicks  is  only  supposed  to  hold 
a  pint  and  a  half,  anyhow,'  he  says.  '  I'll  send 
th'  rest  of  th'  money  over  to  the  Adjutant's 
safe,  where  you  can  get  at  it  handy  after  sum 
mary  court  to-morrer.  H'm.' 

"  Poor  as  we  was,  we'd  a  been  glad  to  get 
away,  but  he  stops  us  again.  '  Won't  ye  be 
good  this  once  ? '  he  says.  '  I  can't  make  it 
out,'  he  says,  sad-like,  to  th'  ceilin'.  '  Here's 
Maniller  layin'  open  before  them,  with  nice 
long  walks  stretchin'  out  all  around  her.  All 
kinds  of  nice  long  hot  walks  beckonin'  them 
out  among  th'  rice-paddies.  An'  th'  Luneta, 
where  they  could  set  and  look  at  th'  ships  when 
they  was  tired,  and  kill  muskeeters.  An'  th' 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  readin'-room.  An'  th'  Lib'ry. 
H'm.  Yet  I'm  mor'lly  certain  they'll  pass  all 
them  things  by  on  the  off  side,  an'  fetch  up 
in  some  low  groggery,  debauchin'  young  En 
gineers  and  Marines  an'  shatterin'  th'  Gover'- 
ment.  Why  can't  my  oldest  soldiers  ack  de 
cent  ? '  he  says,  '  sos't  I  can  take  some  pride 
in  th'm?' 

"  '  May  I  ex-plain  to  th'  Captain,  sir  ? '  asts 
Terry.  '  That  theayter  biznai  was  an  axxi- 
dent.' 

"  '  An  axxident ! '  says  the  Old  Man.   '  H'm. 


The  Superfalous  Man          109 

If  you  see  any  axxidents  comin'  along  to-day, 
give  them  the  road.  They'll  get  into  just  one 
more  axxident,'  he  says  to  th'  ceilin',  '  an' 
they'll  break  my  heart  an*  then'  he  says, 
'  there'll  be  something  noticeable  doin'.  Some 
thing  noticeable.  H'm.' 

"  We  seen  that  was  no  place  for  us,  and 
we  sneaks  out  like  a  pair  of  cats  that  had  got 
caught  in  swimmin'.  *  Did  you  see  his  eye  ? ' 
I  says,  when  we  was  safe  outside.  '  It's  up 
to  us  to  walk  cracks  to-day.' 

"  Terry  just  grunts,  and  the  silence  didn't 
really  get  broken  till  we'd  beat  it  down  Real 
and  was  settin'  on  a  bench  in  th'  Luneta. 
Terry  spoke  first.  '  Any  man  that  figures  up 
my  stummick,'  he  says,  '  at  a  quart  and  a  half, 
has  got  another  guess.' 

" '  That's  a  handsome  Chink  cattle-boat  out 
by  the  end  of  the  breakwater,'  I  says.  '  Ain't 
she  got  graceful  lines  ? ' 

" '  Why,'  asts  Terry,  scuffin'  away  at  the 
gravel  under  the  bench,  *  didn't  he  give  us  a 
nickel  and  ast  f'r  the  change?  Whose  money 
is  that,  anyway  ?  ' 

"  '  That  transport's  a  picture,'  I  says.  '  If 
she  was  on'y  a  little  closer,  we  could  almost 
see  the  stripes  round  her  smoke-stack.' 


110  The  Little  Gods 

"  *  If,'  says  Terry,  '  they  was  any  way  of 
makin'  those  dollars  stretch,  I'd  paint  a  first 
coat  of  blood-color  all  over  Maniller,  just  to 
show  him  what  I  could  do.  But  he  got  th' 
bulge  on  us  when  he  got  th'  cash.' 

"  '  Get  on  to  the  ships/  says  I.  '  He'll  ast 
us  how  they  was  lookinV 

"  All  to  once  Terry  begins  smoothin'  the 
gravel  back  with  his  toe.  *  Casey,'  he  says, 
*  they  will  stretch !  This  is  the  day  we  walk 
on  our  feet  and  save  two  dollars  carrermatter 
money.  It  ain't  such  a  much,  but  —  an'  then,' 
he  says,  *  they's  the  chow  money.  I  know  a 
hash-fact'ry  where  we  can  get  a  plate  of  beans 
f'r  a  peseta  y  media,  an'  beans  is  fillin'.  Y'r 
stummick  don't  hold  but  two  quart  and  a  half, 
anyhow,  and  you  don't  want  to  overload  it. 
Come  on,'  he  says,  jumpin'  up.  '  Altogether 
there's  about  seventy-seven  beers  got  by  the 
Old  Man.  Come  on!  We  must  have  lost  a 
lot  of  time.' 

"  '  As  you  were,'  I  says.  *  If  you  take  me 
f'r  a  low  booze-fighter  like  yourself,'  I  says, 
'  you're  much  mistaken ;  and  besides,'  I  says, 
'  did  ye  ever  hear  the  Old  Man  talk  like  he  did 
this  mornin'  ? ' 

"  '  Onct,'  says  Terry. 


The  Superfalous  Man  111 

"  '  An'  you  know  what  you  got,'  I  says. 
'  It's  up  to  you  and  me  to  roost  high  and  pull 
up  our  feet,  fr  if  old  Ma  Trouble  gets  her 
claws  into  us  this  happy  day,  th'  Old  Man 
is  plannin'  to  draw  cards,  too,  and  they're  a 
bad  pair  to  buck.  Sabef  ' 

11  Terry  seen  I  was  right,  an'  that's  the  way 
we  come  to  land  down  there  on  th'  water 
front.  Don't  ast  me  where  it  was.  We 
walked  through  about  six  gates  in  th'  Walled 
City  and  come  out  on  the  river,  an'  took  a 
canoe  and  landed  somewhere  way  down  on 
the  other  side.  That's  all  I  know.  There  was 
the  place  waitin*  for  us.  Cafe  of  the  400 
Flags,  it  says  in  Spanish  over  the  door,  and 
underneath,  in  English,  Sailor's  Friendly. 

"  And  it  was  a  nice  friendly  sort  of  place. 
We  was  the  only  ones  there,  and  after  we'd 
got  sat  down  in  a  corner  by  a  window,  we 
figured  we'd  fooled  old  Ma  Trouble  f'r  once. 
There  warn't  anybody  within  a  mile  to  lead 
us  astray,  an'  we  just  aimed  to  set  there  an' 
look  at  th'  boats  on  th'  river  till  we'd  had 
enough,  and  then  go  back  to  Barracks  and  sur 
prise  the  Old  Man,  and  make  him  ashamed  of 
himself.  But  it  warn't  to  be. 

"  We  hadn't  been  settin'  there  more'n  half 


112  The  Little  Gods 

an  hour,  when  that  A.  O.  H.  sailorman  Schlei- 
macher  from  Cavite  comes  in  the  door,  and 
th'  sorrerful  lad  was  right  behind  him.  It 
was  all  off  then,  on'y  we  didn't  know  it. 

" '  Ahoy,  amigos'  says  Schleimacher. 
'  Well,  well,  well,  if  it  ain't  the  two  pay- 
triots!  Always  sloppin'  round  in  beer,  ain't 
you?  Don't  go  dilutin'  your  insides  with  that 
stuff.  Here,  you,'  he  yells  to  the  Malay  pirate 
behind  the  bar,  '  fetch  along  th'  thought-re 
mover  f'r  th'  Senors.' 

"  '  W'isky?  '  asts  th'  pirate. 

"  '  If  that  ain't  like  a  Marine! '  says  Terry. 
*  But  then  you  ain't  got  a  canteen  no  more, 
either.' 

"  '  No,  we  ain't,  dankum  Himmle,'  says  Sly, 
an'  th'  sorrerful  sailorman  butts  in,  layin'  his 
head  down  on  th'  table  and  cryin'  like  a  child. 
'  Times  ayn't  what  they  ware/  he  says.  '  Men 
don't  drink  like  they  used.  Mytes,  I  remem 
ber  a  dye  in  Punt'  Arenas,  off  Tristan  d'A- 
cunha  — ' 

"  '  Who's  y'r  friend,  Sly?  '  I  asts. 

"  '  Damfino,'  says  Sly.  '  He  picked  me  up 
at  th'  Navy  landin'.  Said  my  clo'es  smelt  so 
salt  it  made  his  mouth  water.  Some  lime- 
juicer  on  th'  beach,  I  reckon.  No,  sir, 


The  Superfalous  Man          113 

dankum  Himmle ,  there  ain't  no  more  canteen. 
When  I  think/  Sly  says,  '  of  th'  pay  I've 
wasted  aboard,  f'r  belly-wash,  but  now,'  he 
says,  *  you  don't  hit  th'  beach  on'y  after  pay 
days,  an'  then  you've  got  th'  money,  an'  you've 
got  the  thirst,  an'  Mine  Gott ! '  he  says,  '  the 
load  you  can  get  on!  No  canteens  in  mine. 
Fill  th'm  up.  They's  one  f'r  you,  Barnacles, 
if  you  can  keep  the  tear-drops  out  of  it.' 

"  The  guy  sat  up  straight  enough,  soon  as 
a  drink  was  mentioned,  and  we  got  a  good 
look  at  him.  Talk  about  y'r  hoboes!  That 
mayreener  looked  like  he'd  been  trampin'  it 
way  down  on  th'  bottom,  and  hadn't  got 
around  to  shakin'  himself  and  combin'  the 
shells  and  seaweed  out  of  his  hair. 

"  '  Well,'  says  Terry,  when  he'd  took  him 
in,  '  he  sure  does  look  superfalous  to  me.' 

"  The  guy  mops  up  his  drink,  an'  lays  his 
head  down  on  th'  table  again.  *  That's  th' 
wye  it  gaos,'  he  blatters.  *  I  can't  never  myke 
no  friends,  and  so  I  gao  chysin'  meridiums 
over  the  angry  wyves.  I  'ad  a  friend  onct, 
to  Valparaiso,  as  smart  a  'and  as  ever  reefed 
a  stuns'l  —  '  he  chokes  up  so  bad  he  can't  talk. 

" '  Good  Lord,  Sly,'  says  Terry,  '  have  we 
got  to  set  around  with  that  all  day  ? ' 


114  The  Little  Gods 

"  '  Chuck  him  overboard  if  you  want,'  says 
Sly.  '  He  ain't  mine.  But  let  him  stay,  and 
I'll  pay  for  his.  I  like  a  crowd  around  to  kind 
of  keep  them  movin'.' 

"  'I  'ad  a  shipmyte  onct  off  Comorin,' 
bleats  th'  sorrerful  lad,  '  but  'e  was  lost,  step- 
pin'  of  th'  bowsprit '  —  he  chokes  up. 

"  '  Oh,  well,'  says  Terry,  '  if  you  feel  that 
bad  about  losin'  him,  we'll  have  one  more. 
We'll  all  pay  f'r  his  rounds,  Sly,  if  he's  broke. 
On'y,  he  does  look  super falous  to  me.' 

"  I  reckon  that  wanderer  must  have  felt 
near  as  bad  as  he  looked!  Seemed  like  he'd 
been  pretty  near  everywhere  once  or  twice, 
an'  ev'ry  place  he  remembered,  something 
about  it  made  him  cry.  We  got  ust  to  him 
after  a  while,  and  he  just  sat  with  his  head 
among  th'  glasses,  'ceptin'  when  a  drink  come 
by. 

"  Long  about  noon  we  got  to  wonderin' 
what  we'd  better  drink  next.  Th'  thought- 
remover  warn't  workin'  to  suit  Sly.  '  Th' 
ferry  goes  at  six/  he  says,  '  an'  I  ain't  even 
got  a  start  yet.  Le's  try  an'  find  somethin' 
certain.'  Then  th'  weeper  looks  up. 

"  '  I  can't  'ope  to  myke  no  friends,'  he  says, 
eyein'  us  mournful,  '  but  I  can  myke  a  tamarin' 


The  Superfalous  Man  115 

cocktail.  A  little  lydy  down  to  Macassar 
learnt  me.  Mytes,  w'en  I  think  of  that  pore 
young  girl  an'  the  'orrible  wye  I  lost  'er  — ' 
it  took  two  thought-removers  to  get  him  sos't 
he  could  tell  th'  pirate  what  bottles  to  bring 
f'r  th'  cocktail.  They  made  a  bunch.  Th' 
sorrerful  lad  most  looked  happy  when  he  saw 
them. 

"  '  They  ay  n't  no  tamarin's,'  he  says,  '  but 
that  don't  myke  no  differunce.  Mytes,  you'd 
ought  to  see  th'  tamarin's  at  Isle  o'  France! 
W'en  I  think  I'll  never  see  no  tamarin's  like 
them,  no  more  —  '  On'y  th'  bottles  saved  him. 
He  took  a  swig  out  of  the  first  one  he  touched. 
Right  there  th'  Sorrers  o'  Satan  lad  begun 
to  look  fishy  to  me.  Didn't  seem  like  any- 
body'd  need  quite  so  many  drinks  to  drown 
anything  but  a  thirst.  But  I  forgot  all  that 
when  he  gave  me  th'  cocktail. 

"  'Stead  of  a  kick  it  had  a  kind  of  a  pull 
to  it,  that  drink  did,  like  a  b'loon.  '  Two 
more  of  them,'  says  Sly,  settin'  down  his 
glass,  '  an'  th'  Cavite  ferry  can  go  when  it 
very  well  pleases.  /  can  walk.' 

"  '  If  so  be  I  'ad  a  friend/  says  th'  mair- 
reener,  sort  of  proud  at  th'  way  we  lapped 
them  up,  '  they's  nothin'  I'd  love  better'n  to 


116  The  Little  Gods 

set  all  dye  long  mykin'  tamarin'  cocktails  for 
'im.'  I  reckon  that  was  no  lie.  '  Mytes,'  says 
he,  '  w'en  I  think  I'll  never  'ave  no  real  friend 
to  myke  th'm  for  — ' 

"  '  Brace  up,  Bo,'  says  Terry,  like  a  father. 
Th'  tamarin's  had  took  holt  that  quick. 
'  Brace  up,  old  sport.  We're  all  friends  o' 
your'n  here.  Ain't  that  so,  boys  ?  ' 

"  '  Is  it,  my tes  ?  '  says  th'  mayreener.  '  Is 
it?  Well,  well,  I  never  thought  to  'ave  three 
friends  all  to  onct!  W'en  I  think  of  all  the 
'undreds  of  shipmytes  —  I'll  be  mykin'  up 
another,  mytes.' 

"  So  Barnacles,  he  got  started  makin'  th'm, 
an'  we  got  started  drinkin'  th'm.  So  did  he. 
I  never  seen  a  drink  ack  like  them.  Didn't 
seem  to  have  no  real  effeck,  but  things  just 
moved  away  back  where  they  belonged  an'  let 
you  alone.  And  sympathetic!  Say,  if  we 
could  on'y  manage  to  throw  a  few  of  them 
into  Local  23,  we'd  get  th'  canteen  back.  They 
sure  are  a  funny  drink.  'Bout  th'  sixth,  we 
couldn't  do  enough  f'r  that  stranded  may 
reener.  I'd  forgot  all  about  his  seemin'  fishy, 
and  me  an'  Terry  an'  Sly  hung  round  him 
like  a  bunch  of  old-maid  aunts,  givin'  him 
drinks  ev'ry  time  he  remembered  anything. 


The  Superfalous  Man  117 

He  sure  had  a  great  mem'ry.  'Twarn't  till 
th'  middle  of  the  afternoon  it  begun  to  show 
signs  of  givin'  out.  An'  then  he  thinks  he 
wants  to  have  a  look  at  Maniller  —  sos't  he 
could  remember  that,  I  reckon. 

"  His  legs  wouldn't  quite  hold  him. 
'  Mytes,'  he  says,  '  me  knees  ayn't  what  they 
ware.  Wen  I  remember  them  trips  to  Ker- 
guelen's  Land,  down  round  San  Fernando  Fo 
—  in  them  dyes  no  smarter  'and  rove  a  dead- 
eye  or  'auled  a  keel.  But  now  —  ' 

'"  '  Give  him  an  arm,  Casey/  says  Terry. 
'  Can't  you  see  he  ain't  as  young  as  us  ?  Brace 
up,  old  sport,  we'll  look  out  f'r  you' 

"  So  th'  three  of  us  steers  th'  sorrerful  sail- 
orman  out  onto  th'  muelle,  an'  there  warn't  a 
livin'  soul  on  th'  whole  river  front  but  just 
the  accidental  caraboo!  He  was  standin' 
hitched  to  a  cart,  right  where  old  Ma  had  left 
him. 

"  Th'  mayreener  breaks  down  when  he  sees 
that  caraboo.  '  A  buff alao ! '  he  blatters.  '  I 
ayn't  seen  one  of  them  since  I  was  a  gye  young 
sheperd  —  fisherman,  on  me  father's  little 
farm  in  th'  valleys  —  beaches  o'  Bengal ! 
Mytes,  lead  me  to  th'  buffalao.' 

"  '  That  ain't  a  buffalo,  sport,'  says  Terry. 


118  The  Little  Gods 

'  Buffalos  has  hair.    That's  a  caraboo,  an'  you 
don't  want  no  part  of  him.    They  ain't  safe.' 

" '  'E'll  not  'urt  me,'  says  th'  mayreener. 
'  Aoh,  th'  buffalaos  I've  fed  and  watered  with 
these  'ands  in  th'  dear  old  dyes.  Lead  me  to 
'im,  mytes.' 

"  We  steers  him  over  and  he  falls  on  that 
caraboo's  neck  and  cries  into  his  ear  and  blub 
bers  some  kind  of  talk  to  him :  an'  th'  caraboo 
wriggles  his  ear  an'  waggles  his  little  tail  an' 
blubbers  back.  Them  two  understood  each 
other!  It  knocked  me  flat.  All  my  respec' 
f'r  th'  mayreener  comes  back. 

"  *  Ay,  mytes,'  he  bleats,  '  it  mykes  me 
young  again  to  talk  with  'im.  Put  us  up  on 
th'  cart,  mytes.' 

"  '  Ye  can't  drive  him,  sport  ? '  says  Terry, 
doubtful. 

"  '  F'r  years  I  done  nothink  else,'  says  th' 
mayreener.  '  Aoh,  the  old,  'appy  dyes !  Put 
us  up,  mytes,  an'  pass  us  th'  nose  rope.' 

" '  If  th'  caraboo  kills  him,'  says  Terry, 
'  it'll  on'y  put  th'  pore  old  feller  out  of  his 
mis'ry.'  So  we  hists  him  up  an'  gives  him 
th'  nose  rope,  and  there  he  set  cross-legged 
like  a  nigger,  jerkin'  th'  rope  an'  talkin'  cara- 
boo-talk,  an'  th'  caraboo  goes!  Yes,  sir,  th' 


The  Superfalous  Man          119 

mayreener  drives  him  up  an'  down  like  he'd 
been  born  there !  I  never  seen  no  other  white 
man  that  could  do  that. 

"  '  Come  aboard,  mytes,'  he  says,  pullin' 
up.  '  We'll  tyke  a  little  turn  about  th'  taown.' 

"  Seems  like  I  heard  old  Ma  Trouble 
scratchin'  herself  somewheres.  '  You  go  along 
an'  help  Ma,  Terry,'  I  says,  '  an'  I'll  report 
the  axxident  to  th'  Old  Man.  When  it  comes 
to  takin'  a  ride  with  a  stolen  caraboo  an'  a 
hayseed  mayreener  fr'm  th'  beaches  of  Ben 
gal— ' 

"  '  I  knowed  I  couldn't  'ope  to  'ave  three 
friends,'  says  th'  mayreener,  doublin'  up  an' 
cryin'  like  a  child.  It  didn't  touch  my  heart, 
not  hard,  but  Terry  an'  Sly  was  still  full  of 
tamarindy  feelin's.  *  Don't  spoil  th'  pore  old 
feller's  fun,'  they  says.  '  We'll  bring  th'  cara 
boo  back,  so  it  ain't  as  if  we  stole  him.  He's 
just  borrered.' 

"So  I  dumb  on  and  we  starts,  th'  may 
reener  settin'  an'  jerkin'  th'  rope,  and  us 
hangin'  our  legs  off  th'  back  of  th'  wagon. 
And  by  th'  time  we'd  gone  a  ways,  I  begin  to 
like  it!  It  was  somethin'  new,  an'  then  I 
reckon  perhaps  th'  joltin'  freshened  up  my 
tamarin's  some.  Anyhow,  th'  houses  moved 


120  The  Little  Gods 

back  and  made  room,  an'  th'  people  on  th' 
sidewalks,  givin'  us  a  glad  hand  an'  a  merry 
ha-ha,  sounded  far-away  an'  soothin',  and 
when  we'd  got  up  to  Binondo  bridge  it  seemed 
so  natchral  I  wasn't  even  wonderin'  any  more 
why  a  copper  didn't  pinch  us.  I  don't  sabe 
that  yet,  but  I  reckon  old  Ma  kep'  them  off 
till  she  got  done  with  us. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  ride  went  fine,  till  we  come 
to  th'  foot  of  the  Escolta.  You  know  what 
it's  like  at  that  time  of  day?  Jam  full!  A 
line  of  rigs  was  standin'  along  each  side  of 
that  narrer  little  old  street,  and  inside  of  them 
two  more  lines  was  pokin'  along,  opposite 
ways,  and  in  what  was  left  of  th'  middle  th' 
horse-cars  was  doin'  rapid  transit.  Didn't  look 
like  you  could  crowd  a  thin  dog  through  that 
mess. 

"  '  Here's  where  we  turn  round,  sport,'  says 
Terry,  but  it  was  no  use.  Th'  mayreener 
whispers  some  messages  down  th'  rope  an'  th' 
caraboo  swings  into  th'  car-tracks,  and  next 
minute  there  we  was  plowin'  a  road  up  the 
Escolta,  and  no  way  of  backin*  out  till  we  hit 
the  other  end,  half  a  mile  away.  I  never  felt 
so  conspectuous  in  my  life!  Ev'rybody  was 
lookin'.  'Tain't  often  they  see  three  soldiers 


caraboodrivin'  up  the  Escolta,  with  old  man 
McGinty  at  th'  rope! 

"  We  might  have  made  it,  I  still  think,  if 
th'  mayreener  had  stuck  to  th'  job.  He  sure 
sabed  caraboo.  But  he  lays  down  on  us.  Yes, 
sir,  right  there  he  just  curls  up  and  goes  sound 
asleep !  '  My  watch  below,  mytes,'  he  says. 
'  Relieve  th'  w'eel,'  an'  he  topples  over.  Sly 
grabs  th'  rope. 

"  And  away  we  went !  Seems  like  th'  cara 
boo  knowed  something  green  had  took  holt. 
He  puts  his  nose  down  an'  whoofs  an'  swings 
his  head.  First  wipe  th'  tip  of  a  horn  catches 
a  chicken-coop  wagon,  an'  R-r-rip !  —  th' 
spokes  is  out  of  a  wheel.  He  swings  th'  other 
way  an'  takes  a  piece  of  varnish,  with  th'  wood 
still  on  it,  of  a  shiny  new  victorier.  Sly  gets 
mad  at  that! 

"  '  Clear  out  of  th'  fairway,  ye  blinkety- 
blanked-blicked-zinked  longshoreman,'  he  yells, 
hittin'  th'  caraboo  a  crack  with  the  end  of  th' 
rope.  Th'  caraboo  breaks  into  a  gallop, 
swingin'  them  horns  like  a  scythe,  and  ev'ry 
jump  Sly  hands  him  another.  '  Stand  by  to 
repel  boarders,'  he  sings  out.  '  Hit  th'  vic 
torier  guy  in  th'  eye  if  he  sets  a  foot  on  deck. 
Wheee-ee-e!  Luff  up,  ahead  there,  you're  off 


122  The  Little  Gods 

your  course!  Luff  up!  Well,  take  it,  then.' 
Zing !  Bing !  One  of  our  wheels  —  they  was 
sawed  solid  off  a  log  four  foot  through  —  hits 
a  carrermatter  an'  tosses  it  onto  another,  and 
them  two  piles  up  some  more.  '  Whee-ee-ee ! ' 
Sly  yells.  '  Hold  her  as  she  is !  Didn't  carry 
away  nothin'  that  trip,  did  we?  Whee-ee- 
eee!' 

"  He  lights  in  with  th'  rope  and  away  we 
goes  again,  two  ton  of  caraboo  and  two  ton 
of  wagon,  both  built  low,  at  a  dead  gallop! 
Rigs  was  pilin'  up  all  around  us,  an'  horses 
was  kickin'  an'  squealin',  an'  wheels  was  lockin' 
up  an'  rippin'  out  spokes,  an'  cocheros  was 
cussin'  in  ten  languages.  Away  back  I  seen 
a  mounted  cop  chasin'  us,  but  Ma  had  him 
headed  off  in  that  mess. 

"  And  then  She  sets  her  claws  in !  Right 
ahead  of  us  a  carrermatter  was  streakin'  it 
hell-bent  through  an  open  space,  tryin'  to  get 
away.  We  could  see  th'  feller  in  it  leanin' 
forrard  and  whalin'  th'  horse.  But,  Lord,  that 
caraboo'd  a  run  down  a  thoroughbred. 

" '  Sheer  off  to  starboard ! '  Sly  yells. 
*  What  do  ye  mean,  loafin'  round  th'  channel 
that  way,  ye  blinkety-bling-blanked  son  of  a 
mess  attendant?  I  report  ye  to  th'  Captain 


The  Superfalous  Man  123 

of  th'  Port  To  starboard,  I  tell  ye.  Port 
your  helm!  Hard  over!  Oh,  well,'  he  says, 
'  if  you  want  it  —  Collision  bulkheads,  boys, 
I'll  have  to  ram  him.  Hold  hard,  all !  Whee- 
eee-eeee ! '  He  hits  th'  caraboo  a  couple  more, 
and  it  seems  like  we  go  right  through  that 
carrermatter.  It  just  fades  away.  '  Take 
that ! '  yells  Sly.  '  An'  I'll  report  ye,  besides.' 

"  An'  right  then,  risin'  up  out  of  what  had 
been  th'  carrermatter,  I  seen  a  short  chunky 
kind  of  a  man,  with  a  tire  hung  to  one  ear, 
and  a  handful  of  spokes  stickin'  out  of  one 
pocket,  and  a  piece  of  dashboard  in  one  hand. 
I  didn't  see  him  long,  but  I  seen  him  awful 
plain.  It  was  Him!  '  Looka  there! '  I  whis 
pers  —  I  couldn't  talk  —  an'  Terry  takes  one 
look,  an'  he  couldn't  talk. 

"  An'  then  th'  Old  Man  catches  sight  of  us, 
an'  he  stands  up  in  th'  ruins  and  shakes  th' 
piece  of  dashboard  at  us.  *  H'm ! '  he  says. 
'  H'm-mmm ! '  That's  all.  He  couldn't  talk, 
neither. 

"  Right  there  a  street  turns  off  the  Escolta, 
an'  I  seen  it  was  then  or  never.  '  Sly,'  I  says, 
*  can  ye  turn  off  here  to  th'  lef '  ?  ' 

"  '  Sure,'  he  says.  '  Anywheres.  He's 
steerin' fine  now.  Whoop-eee-eeee-ee ! '  Zing! 


124  The  Little  Gods 

Bing!  Sly  leans  back  on  th'  rope,  an'  th' 
caraboo  puts  his  nose  down,  an'  Whoof !  —  he 
hits  that  line  of  rigs  between  us  an'  th'  road 
we  needed.  Talk  about  football.  Two  bumps 
and  a  hard  swaller,  an'  we  was  gallopin'  down 
that  side  street,  with  th'  racket  dyin'  away 
behind  us. 

"  '  Keep  him  goin',  Sly,'  I  says.  '  'Twas 
th'  Old  Man  we  hit!' 

"  '  Mine  Gott ! '  says  Sly,  and  lights  in  with 
th'  rope.  Th'  caraboo  tries  to  fly,  but  that 
didn't  bother  us.  We  wouldn't  a  cared  if  he 
had.  We  just  hangs  on  and  lets  him  go  it. 

"  When  he  did  stop  it  was  in  front  of  a 
s'loon!  Funny  coincident,  warn't  it?  We 
seen  there  was  just  one  thing  to  do,  an'  th' 
mayreener  thinks  so,  too.  He  slep'  through 
all  that,  but  th'  minute  we  was  sneakin'  up 
quiet  on  a  drink  he  comes  to  life ! 

"  '  'As  anythink  'appened,  mytes  ?  '  he  asts. 
We  tells  him. 

"  '  Aoh,'  he  says,  '  I  do  'ope  ye  'aven't  'urt 
me  buffalao!  They're  dillikit  creachures, 
mytes.  In  the  old,  'appy  dyes  — '  he  has  to 
cry  in  th'  caraboo's  ear  before  he  can  take  his 
drink. 

"  Don't  ast  me  how  we  spent  th'  rest  of  the 


The  Superfalous  Man          125 

afternoon.  Ast  th'  caraboo;  he  was  boss. 
We  couldn't  steer  him  none  to  speak  of,  but 
we  could  start  him  goin'.  He  stopped  him 
self.  Always  in  front  of  a  s'loon,  too.  I'd 
like  to  see  th'  guy  that  owned  him. 

"  An'  ev'ry  time  he  stopped,  th'  mayreener 
would  wake  up  an'  mix  a  tamarin'  cocktail 
an'  have  a  weep.  His  mem'ry  was  workin' 
fine  again.  An'  so  we  follered  th'  trail  of 
that  intemp'rate  caraboo  through  all  th'  back 
streets  of  Maniller,  wanderin'  on  fr'm  one 
low  haunt  of  vice  to  another  till  the  houses 
moved  back  where  they  belonged  again,  an'  th' 
sun  got  nice  and  hot  and  shiny,  and  even  th' 
Old  Man  didn't  seem  to  matter  —  much  —  an' 
we  went  to  sleep  on  th'  cart,  still  wanderin'. 

"  When  I  woke  up,  Sly  was  gone,  but  Terry 
and  th'  mayreener  was  still  poundin'  their  ears, 
and  th'  caraboo  was  still  walkin',  quiet,  like 
he  was  loafin'  home  with  his  dinner-pail  and 
pipe  after  a  hard  day's  work,  along  a  road 
between  some  rice-paddies.  Things  looked 
new  to  me  and  I  set  up  and  took  a  look.  We 
was  lost !  Th'  sun  was  settin'  'way  over  across 
th'  paddies,  and  there  warn't  no  Maniller  in 
sight,  nor  nothin'  but  just  th'  paddies  and  th' 
road  —  and  us.  And  I  warn't  sure  whether  it 


126  The  Little  Gods 

was  yestidday  or  to-morrer!  I  felt  so  lone 
some  I  woke  Terry  up. 

"  We  set  lookin'  round  a  spell,  and  things 
begun  to  come  back  to  us.  '  Old  Ma  cert'nly 
hooked  th'm  in  this  time,'  I  says.  '  Th'  Old 
Man's  heart  is  broke  now,  all  right.  Did  ye 
spot  th'  look  in  his  eye  when  he  reco'nized  us  ? 
That  spelt  G.  C.  M.  to  me.' 

"  '  Th'  carrermatter  was  just  an  axxi — ' 
Terry  stops  short.  '  I  donno,'  he  says,  '  but 
what  it  would  be  safer  to  desert.' 

"  '  Maybe  we've  deserted  a'ready,'  I  says. 
'  Lord  knows  how  long  we've  overstayed  our 
leave.  I  feel  like  I'd  slep'  a  month.' 

"  '  I've  got  a  head,  too,'  says  Terry.  '  It 
was  them  tamarin'  cocktails  done  it.  Swelp 
me  if  I  ever  drink  another  drink.' 

"  That  hits  th'  mayreener.  '  Lead  me  to 
it,  mytes,'  he  says,  sleepy.  '  Me  legs  ayn't 
what  they  ware,  but  lead  me  to  it.' 

"  *  That's  what  done  it,'  I  says  to  Terry. 

"  Terry  looks  at  th'  mayreener  a  spell. 
'  Casey,'  he  says,  '  you're  right.  He  done 
it,  th'  shrimp.  It  was  him  invented  th'  tam- 
arin's,  and  him  st —  borrered  th'  caraboo,  and 
him  went  to  sleep  on  the  Escolta.  And  us 
aimin'  to  ack  decent,  an'  gettin'  th'  Old  Man 


to  save  our  money  for  us.  Th'  cock-eyed  old 
cod-fish ! '  says  Terry,  eyein'  th'  slumberin' 
mayreener.  '  I'd  like  to  bat  his  head  off. 
Swelp  me  if  ever  I  drink  another  — ' 

"  *  Mytes,'  th'  mayreener  begins,  but  Terry 
claps  a  hand  over  his  mouth.  '  What'll  we  do 
to  him,  Casey  ?  '  he  says. 

"  '  Le's  think,'  I  says. 

"  Th'  caraboo  was  still  loafin'  along  with 
his  pick  and  shovel  over  his  shoulder,  and  we 
sets  and  looks  at  him,  and  th'  mayreener,  and 
th'  paddies,  thinkin'.  It  was  gettin'  pretty 
near  dark,  and  'way  ahead  of  us  was  some 
mountains  th'  caraboo  looked  to  be  makin'  for. 
Then  th'  plan  come  to  us. 

" '  Give  us  th'  rope,  Casey,'  Terry  says. 
*  He  might  roll  off  'n  muddy  his  does.'  They 
was  a  coil  of  pack-rope  on  th'  cart,  and  we 
takes  and  rolls  th'  mayreener  all  up  in  it  and 
fastens  him  to  th'  cart,  all  safe  and  sound. 
He  never  yips  till  we're  settin'  th'  last  knot. 
'  Three  friends,'  he  says.  '  Mytes,  I  never 
thought  to  'ave  —  ' 

"  '  Friends ! '  says  Terry.  '  Friends!  Ain't 
he  got  a  nerve ! ' 

"  We  drops  off  behind  and  leaves  him  and 
his  buffalao  to  jog  along.  It  was  gettin'  dark, 


128  The  Little  Gods 

but  we  set  down  and  watched  them  out  of 
sight.  They  was  passin'  out  of  our  lives  slow 
but  sure,  joggin'  along,  him  and  his  buffalao. 

"  '  There  may  be  ladrones  in  them  moun 
tains,'  I  says. 

"  '  Ladrones/  says  Terry,  '  wouldn't  bother 
him.  He's  too  superfalous  f'r  ladrones.' 

"  It  got  darker  and  darker,  and  pretty  soon 
old  Mr.  Caraboo  grunts  up  over  a  little  rise 
and  they  was  gone.  '  Well,'  says  Terry,  '  if 
he  ever  does  get  back,  he'll  have  somethin' 
real  to  remember  this  time.  Come  along, 
Casey.' 

"  So  we  hits  th'  road.  We  reckoned  if  we 
follered  it  long  enough,  we  prob'ly  strike 
some  place.  So  we  plugs  along  through  th' 
dark.  We  warn't  worryin'  none  about  Schlei- 
macher.  Nothin'  ever  happens  to  a  full- 
blooded  Marine,  anyhow,  and  we  had  other 
things  to  think  about. 

"  '  Did  ye  notice  th'  tire  round  his  neck  ? ' 
I  says.  '  That  tire'll  cost  us  a  mont'  extry.' 

"  Terry  grunts.  '  Considerin'  th'  months 
we'll  get  anyhow/  he  says,  disgusted-like,  '  an 
extry  one  is  what  I'd  call  superfalous.' 

"  And  so,"  the  voice  concluded  thought 
fully,  "  we  plugs  along." 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   VALLEY   OF   SUNSHINE   AND   SHADOW 

THE  voice  died  away  and  it  was  still,  with 
a  breathless  silence  which  made  the  beating  of 
my  heart  ring  in  my  ears.  It  was  as  though 
I  stood  outside  the  world,  in  the  Empty 
Places.  And  then  slowly  consciousness  re 
turned,  if  I  had  been  unconscious,  and  I  opened 
my  eyes  and  found  that  I  was  no  longer  in 
that  old  temple  of  Tzin  Piaou.  I  was  glad 
of  that.  I  had  grown  weary  and  half  afraid 
of  seeing  that  old  man  who  lay  there  on  his 
slab  of  stone,  looking,  looking,  looking  into 
vacancy,  watching  the  strivings  and  disasters 
and  the  grimy  ludicrousness  of  his  fellows, 
while  a  little  flame  of  derisive  laughter  danced 
and  flickered  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  me 
in  truth  a  heathen  man. 

Now  I  lay  in  a  spacious,  dusky  chamber, 
on  a  wide  divan  cushioned  with  softest  stuff, 
and  above  me,  suspended  from  the  lofty  ceil 
ing  by  curiously  wrought  chains  of  silver  and 
swaying  slowly,  silver  lamps  burned  very 


130  The  Little  Gods 

dimly,  and  the  swaying  light  and  shadow  of 
them  moved  on  the  age-blackened  teak-wood 
of  the  floor  and  the  mellowed  silken  tapestries 
with  which  the  walls  were  hung.  The  air  was 
sweet,  and  very  heavy,  with  the  fumes  of  burn 
ing  incense,  and  it  was  vibrant  with  the  rise 
and  fall  of  many  distant  voices,  as  if  they 
spoke  softly,  or  prayed,  perhaps,  in  unison. 

In  my  wonderment,  I  stirred  a  little  on  my 
couch,  and  from  a  dusky  corner  of  the  chamber 
a  woman  came  swiftly  forward  and  stood 
before  me,  —  such  a  woman  as  I  had  never 
thought  to  behold.  If  every  perfection  of 
every  perfect  beauty  men  have  famed  could 
have  been  stolen  to  deck  one  woman  only,  and 
have  been  blended  cunningly  together  by  a 
master  hand  and  made  instinct  with  life,  that 
might  have  been  the  birth  of  her  I  looked  on 
then. 

A  thin  gold  circlet  glinted  dully  in  the  dark 
ness  of  her  hair,  and  she  was  robed  in  a  single 
garment  of  some  thin,  clinging,  gauzy,  pre 
cious  stuff  which  revealed  the  more  fully  her 
womanly  perfections,  the  while  it  pretended 
to  conceal  them.  She  walked  swiftly  and 
lightly,  with  lithe  hips  swaying  in  the  way 
of  Eastern  women,  and  her  rosy  feet  twinkled 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  131 

in  the  swaying  yellow  lamplight;  she  came 
and  stood  before  me  and  looked  down  with 
serious,  starry  eyes. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  I  asked.  "  And  who  are 
you  ?  A  Heathen  Goddess  ?  " 

She  laughed  softly.  "  You  are  in  the  temple 
of  Lai,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  a  priestess  of 
Lai." 

"Why  am  I  here?"  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "  but  you  were 
sent,  I  think,  to  see." 

"What,"  I  asked,  "is  that  murmur  of 
voices,  as  if  many  prayed  together?  " 

"  They  are  praying,"  she  said.  "  Look  and 
see!" 

She  drew  aside  a  fold  of  the  tapestry,  and 
I  looked  into  the  cavern  of  a  temple.  Around 
a  lofty,  mystic  figure  other  swaying  lamps  of 
silver  burned,  and  other  priestesses  in  shining, 
gauzy  robes  held  offerings  aloft.  And  all  the 
vast  floor  of  the  temple  was  one  heaving  sea 
of  the  women  of  the  East,  who  knelt,  and  held 
their  hands  on  high,  imploringly,  and  laid 
their  foreheads  on  the  flagstones.  And  as 
they  knelt  they  prayed,  and  the  soft  ripple  of 
their  voices  made  all  the  arches  of  the  temple 
murmur. 


132  The  Little  Gods 

"  What  do  they  pray  for,"  I  asked,  "  so 
many  of  them  together  ?  " 

"  For  fruitf ulness,"  said  the  priestess  of  Lai 
softly.  "  For  fruitful  love.  They  know  that 
if  a  woman  has  that,  she  has  all  that  the  world 
can  give  her.  So  they  pray  for  it." 

"  That,"  said  I,  "  is  the  fate  of  women. 
The  bitter  fate,  for  when  their  love  must  prove 
unfruitful  —  " 

"  It  is  still  love,"  said  the  priestess  of  Lai 
softly,  "  and  sweeter  than  all  else  in  life." 

In  the  dimness  behind  me,  I  thought  I  heard 
the  echo  of  a  chuckle  of  cynical  laughter,  but 
I  did  not  heed  it.  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  any  love 
that's  true  is  sweeter  than  all  else  —  " 

"  Sweeter  than  life  itself,"  murmured  the 
priestess  of  Lai,  and  started,  half  afraid.  For 
louder,  more  unmistakable,  sounded  that 
mocking  chuckle. 

But  I  did  not  heed  it.  Her  words  had 
stirred  old  memories  in  me,  and  once  again  I 
was  wandering  in  the  sun-flooded  length  and 
breadth  of  a  Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow 
intermingled. 

Far  up  in  the  northern  end  of  Luzon  the 
cloud-hung  cordillera  divides  to  east  and  west 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  133 

before  it  sinks  abruptly  in  the  sea,  enclosing 
the  great  central  valley  of  the  Cagayan.  A 
dim,  far-off  region  it  has  always  been,  of 
which  the  good  folk  of  Manila  spoke  with 
vague  words,  as  old  men  on  the  hills  of  Spain 
used  to  speak  of  Ultramar,  that  unknown 
somewhere  into  which  their  sons  were  forever 
disappearing.  And  even  the  people  of  the 
valley  did  not  know  it.  At  Aparri,  on  the 
coast,  where  in  the  old  days  bales  of  tobacco 
were  piled  like  houses  along  the  sandy  streets 
while  the  shipping  season  lasted,  the  busy 
laborers  would  tell  you  that  it  all  came  from 
"  up  there,"  with  a  wide  vague  sweep  of  the 
hand  toward  the  south.  You  took  a  canoe 
and  went  southward  for  days  between  gray 
forests  where  the  parrots  screamed  and  mon 
keys  climbed  lazily  down  the  creepers  to  scoop 
up  water  in  their  tiny  hands,  and  you  found 
Tuguegarao,  the  little  city,  sleeping  on  the 
bluffs,  perched  high  and  safe  above  the  river; 
and  men  still  told  you  of  the  wonders  to  be 
seen  "  up  there."  And  then,  after  lazy  days 
and  days,  poling  upward  past  endless  fields 
of  corn  and  tobacco,  you  came  to  Ilagan,  and 
the  clerks  in  the  offices  of  the  Compafiia  Gen 
eral  spoke  to  you  of  great  plantations  to  be 


134  The  Little  Gods 

seen  "  up  there."  But  at  Ilagan  most  men 
wearied  of  the  journey,  and  gave  up  their 
quest  before  they  had  gone  half  way. 

They  should  have  persisted,  for  the  real  "  up 
there "  is  the  wonderful  place  they  dreamed 
of,  a  land  of  magnificent  spaces,  of  great 
stretches  of  plain  and  rolling  hills.  In  every 
little  valley  is  a  forest  where  deer  and  wild 
boars  and  buffalo  hide.  And  all  the  reaches 
of  the  river  and  the  clear  tributary  mountain 
streams,  the  pinaucanauanes,  are  covered  with 
clouds  of  ducks.  And  everywhere  is  tobacco 
—  in  the  fields  and  in  the  houses,  and  in  the 
big,  flat-bottomed  boats,  the  barangayanes,  on 
the  river.  There  is  a  stretch  of  country  where 
it  seems  the  rich,  deep,  warm  soil  never  tires 
of  growing  things  —  tobacco  and  corn  and 
flowers  and  canes  and  grasses  and  bamboo  — 
and  men  have  called  it  "La  Flor  de  la  Isa- 
bela"  the  flower  of  the  land  of  good  Queen 
Ysabel.  It  is  a  very  quiet  region,  but  there 
is  a  charm  in  the  broad  fields,  and  the  hot, 
sunny  air,  and  the  wild  hunts  over  plain  and 
hill,  and  the  expeditions  now  and  then  in 
search  of  gold  in  the  distant,  purple  moun 
tains  where  the  wild  men  live.  The  valley 
grows  upon  one  till  one  forgets  the  hills  of 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  135 

Spain  and  the  people  one  knew,  and  even  the 
nearer  delights  of  Manila,  and  stays  on  "  up 
there  "  till  one  passes  from  the  world  which 
already  has,  and  is,  forgotten. 

Sometimes  they  emerged  for  a  moment, 
even  came  down  to  "  el  Capital "  for  the 
Christmas  festivities,  —  lean,  bronzed,  bearded 
men  who  wandered  silent  through  the  gay 
crowds.  How  should  they  speak  when  they 
knew  nothing  of  all  the  gossip  of  Manila,  — 
the  ball  his  Excellency  was  giving,  and  Don 
Fulano's  promotion,  and  the  match  between 
that  young  Diego  de  Tal  and  the  General's 
daughter?  But  let  two  of  them  meet  in  a 
cafe,  over  the  tiny  glasses  of  cognac,  and  they 
could  talk  readily  enough,  though  always  in 
that  quiet,  self-retained  way  which  men  of 
the  open  have. 

"  Brr-r-gh,  it's  chilly  here ;  it  would  not  be 
like  this  in  the  valley !  "  —  "  No,  they  will  be 
planting  now.  And  the  river  must  be  rising; 
the  young  daredevils  will  be  having  great  sport 
shooting  the  rapids  at  Alcala.  Remember  the 
whirlpool  on  the  west  bank?"  —  "Do  I? 
Have  you  heard  that  Don  Enrique  will  hold 
a  great  fiesta  on  Shrove  Tuesday  ?  "  —  "  Well, 
he  can  afford  it,  with  this  crop.  Don  Enrique 


136  The  Little  Gods 

has  covered   more  thousands  this  year  than 
you  have  hairs  on  your  chin,  hombre" 

Always  the  valley  and  the  river  and  tobacco, 
and  Don  Enrique.  For  Don  Enrique  was 
their  lord.  The  Company  back  in  Barcelona 
and  Madrid  might  own  everything  —  the  lean, 
silent,  white  men,  and  the  brown,  toiling  thou 
sands  in  the  fields,  and  the  boats  on  the  river, 
and  the  great  white  fortresses  of  warehouses 
—  but  in  the  valley  Don  Enrique  was  Com 
pany  and  King.  For  him  they  toiled  and  died 
forgotten,  from  him  they  thankfully  received 
their  meagre  wage,  and  when  an  order  came 
signed  in  his  heavy  hand,  "  Vcddez  y  de  las 
Vegas,"  all  men  hurried  to  do  his  will.  Any 
one  would  be  proud  to  serve  such  a  man. 
There  was  a  Valdez  with  every  great  captain 
that  ever  sailed,  and  a  Vegas  keeps  his  hat 
on  with  the  highest  yet.  And  since  this  is  a 
commercial  age,  and  mere  family  renown  can 
count  for  little  in  the  balance  against  hard 
cash,  each  year  brought  Don  Enrique  one  hun 
dred  thousand  pesos,  five  hundred  thousand 
pesetas,  eight  hundred  thousand  reales!  Mira, 
amigo,  you  could  buy  your  bread  and  sausage 
with  that,  eh?  and  have  something  left  for  a 
bit  of  a  present  for  the  wife? 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  137 

And  then  he  was  no  make-believe  ruler,  this 
Don  Enrique.  He  knew  the  valley,  every 
day's  journey  of  it,  from  lonely  Cordon  lying 
in  the  threatening  shadows  of  the  pass,  to  the 
latest  change  in  the  bar  outside  Aparri ;  knew 
the  capacity  of  each  warehouse  to  the  last 
bale;  knew  the  shifting  channel  of  the  river, 
and  could  foretell  the  treacherous  floods.  And 
he  knew  what  each  subordinate  of  his  was 
doing.  No  one  knew  when  to  expect  a  visit 
from  him,  and  there  were  few  who  did  not 
dread  being  called  to  ride  with  him.  Yet  he 
would  dismount  at  the  end  of  a  long  day  in 
the  saddle  with  as  much  calm  grace  as  though 
he  were  merely  returning  from  a  canter  round 
the  town. 

For  he  was  always  calm  and  dignified  and 
silent,  as  only  a  gentleman  of  Castile  can  be. 
Not  taciturn  or  insolent,  or  overbearing,  but 
merely  closed  in  himself.  He  treated  all  men 
—  all  white  men,  of  course  I  mean,  for  natives 
do  not  count  —  with  quiet  courtesy,  and  made 
neither  enemies  nor  friends.  Even  the  guests 
who  shared  the  hospitality  of  the  great  house 
at  Echague  knew  very  little  of  their  host. 

It  was  a  house,  that  place  at  Echague,  built 
four-square  and  heavy  as  a  fort,  of  great 


138  The  Little  Gods 

blocks  of  sandstone,  and  back  of  it  was  a  huge 
walled  garden.  Of  course  Don  Enrique  had 
other  houses,  three  of  them,  at  Ilagan  and 
Aparri  and  Manila.  But  he  was  as  much  a 
man  of  the  open  as  any  of  his  world-searching 
forebears,  and  he  loved  far-off  Echague  better 
than  all  the  rest.  Here,  when  the  shipping 
was  over  and  the  last  barangayan  lay  loaded 
to  the  water's  edge  above  the  rapids  at  Alcala, 
waiting  for  the  first  gentle  lift  of  the  rains  to 
carry  her  safe  down  to  Aparri,  Don  Enrique 
would  retire  with  a  band  of  chosen  companions 
to  hunt  and  game  hard  and  long.  Few  men 
were  invited  a  second  time,  or  wished  to  be, 
for  with  all  his  courtesy  Don  Enrique  was  an 
exacting  host  in  the  hunting  season.  Long 
before  dawn,  the  hounds  would  be  belling  in 
the  patio,  the  great  tiled  courtyard,  and  the 
sleepy  guest,  turning  on  his  pillow  for  another 
nap,  would  hear  a  mighty  splashing  from  the 
room  of  his  host,  and  the  vicious  squeals  of 
the  fiery  little  stallions  in  the  stables,  and  the 
clink  of  bits  and  stirrups  and  spears.  And 
before  the  unhappy  sportsman  could  quite  fall 
asleep,  there  would  come  a  peal  of  trumpets 
in  the  haunting  reveille  and  boys  pounding  at 
each  door :  "  Ready,  Senor.  Ready.  Your 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  139 

coffee  is  ready."  And  so  they  were  up  and 
away  in  a  mad  rush  over  hill  and  valley  in 
the  gloom,  anything  but  attractive  to  a  man 
who  had  a  decent  regard  for  his  neck. 

And  when  they  returned,  Don  Enrique 
would  come  riding  at  the  head  of  the  long 
line,  grave  and  composed  as  ever,  while  the 
huntsmen  were  loaded  down  with  a  beautiful 
great  buck  or  a  boar,  killed  by  a  single  thrust 
of  which  any  matador  in  Madrid  need  not 
have  been  ashamed.  Then,  after  the  huge 
hunt  breakfast,  would  come  the  welcome  tor 
por  of  the  siesta,  and  in  the  evening  a  mighty 
game,  malilla  or  monte  or  billiards,  for  Don 
Enrique  played  as  he  worked  and  rode,  with 
a  carelessness  of  consequences  not  at  all  pleas 
ant  to  a  man  with  a  decent  regard  for  his 
purse. 

So,  one  by  one,  the  guests  sailed  away  down 
the  mysterious  river,  and  left  Don  Enrique 
alone  in  the  great  house  at  Echague,  to  be 
master  of  all  he  surveyed.  And  there  he 
moved  about  his  lost  world,  and  was  capped 
and  bowed  down  to,  and  had  his  courteous, 
imperious  way,  until  I  think  he  began  to  feel 
that  he  was  really  a  very  great  man  indeed. 
And  perhaps  he  was,  as  great  as  any  other. 


140  The  Little  Gods 

But  solitary  grandeur  has  its  drawbacks, 
even  to  as  grave  and  great  a  man  as  Don 
Enrique;  and  as  the  summers  came  treading 
on  each  other's  heels  with  their  burden  of  end 
less  days,  Don  Enrique,  sipping  his  Rioja  in 
solitary  state  in  the  great  dining-room,  where 
the  sweetness  of  orange-blossoms  stole  in 
through  the  wide  windows,  began  to  dream 
dreams  of  a  companion  who  should  sit  always 
with  him  of  an  evening  across  the  big,  gleam 
ing  table,  or  come  close  beside  him  and  share 
his  thoughts.  No,  Don  Enrique  was  not 
thinking  of  a  wife;  he  had  had  a  wife,  and 
"  lost "  her,  as  he  told  the  world.  But  there 
was  his  "  little  girl,"  Mercedes,  back  in  a 
great  gray  convent  in  Madrid.  His  little  girl, 
he  called  her  in  the  letters  he  sent  back  every 
month,  for  she  lived  in  his  memory  as  the  shy 
little  maid  he  had  given  to  a  sweet-voiced 
Mother  Superior,  so  many  years  before.  It 
was  for  her  he  had  been  working  all  these 
years  and  piling  up  these  princely  possessions, 
and  a  look  of  almost  womanish  tenderness 
would  come  over  his  proud,  grave  face  when 
he  thought  of  her.  This  thought  of  her  had 
sustained  him  in  all  the  loneliness,  and  he  had 
always  dreamed  of  her  coming  as  the  crown- 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  141 

ing  touch  to  his  life.  "  Sometime,"  said  Don 
Enrique  often  to  the  lizards  darting  across 
the  table  in  the  evening,  as  lizards  will,  "  some 
time  she  shall  come  to  us."  And  somehow 
sometime  always  lingered  in  the  future. 

But  at  last,  one  evening  when  the  odor  of 
the  blossoms  hung  very  heavy  in  the  damp, 
still  air,  and  the  thunder  was  muttering  in  the 
pass  far  back  of  Santa  Lucia,  Don  Enrique 
stopped  his  sipping  to  look  very  hard  at  the 
great-grandfather  of  all  the  lizards,  a  tremen 
dous  old  fellow  almost  five  inches  long.  And 
the  lizard  returned  the  stare  with  his  bright, 
beady  eyes. 

"For  Dios,  my  big  friend,"  said  Don  En 
rique  to  the  lizard,  at  last,  "  she  shall  come  to 
us  at  once."  And  if  you  realize  what  a  very 
great  man  Don  Enrique  was,  you  will  under 
stand  that  when  he  began  to  make  companions 
of  the  lizards,  even  the  biggest  and  most  re 
spectable  of  them,  it  was  quite  time  that  he 
sent  for  Dona  Mercedes. 

Letters  came  and  went,  and  in  the  Christmas 
season  Don  Enrique  found  himself  in  Manila 
waiting  for  the  good  old  Ysla  de  Panay  to 
bring  his  little  girl  to  him.  Many  longing 
hearts  have  followed  those  old  ships  of  the 


142  The  Little  Gods 

Spanish  Mail  in  the  days  that  are  gone.  For 
all  this  was  long  ago.  Not  long  as  you  count, 
perhaps,  but  I  have  seen  Dona  Mercedes'  eyes, 
and  they  told  me  that  it  happened  long,  long 
ago,  when  the  world  was  very  young  indeed. 
But  the  old  ship  did  not  bring  Don  Enrique 
his  little  girl,  after  all.  I  wish  you  might  have 
seen  the  Dona  Mercedes  who  did  come.  Your 
heart  would  have  beaten  as  fast,  I  hope,  as  that 
of  the  spruce  young  lieutenant  who  almost  let 
her  fall  as  he  was  helping  her  into  the  launch, 
and  retired  quite  as  full  of  confusion  and 
blushes  and  speechlessness  as  if  he  had  never 
worn  shoulder-straps  and  a  smart  small-sword, 
and  been  aide-de-camp  to  his  Excellency  the 
Gobernador-General.  For  Dona  Mercedes  was 
tall  and  slight,  with  all  the  stateliness  of  her 
house,  and  her  head  was  poised  like  a  queen's 
on  her  slender  neck,  and  her  little,  high-arched 
feet  seemed  scarce  to  touch  the  deck.  Yet  it 
was  not  the  proud  lady  who  made  the  young 
lieutenant's  hand  unsteady  —  he  lived  and 
moved  among  proud  ladies,  —  it  was  the  eyes 
of  the  young  girl.  For  Dona  Mercedes  still 
looked  out  on  the  world  from  the  shelter  of 
her  convent  window,  with  such  a  gentle,  timid, 
inquiring  smile  in  the  depths  of  her  great  dark 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  143 

eyes  that  she  was  far  more  dangerous  to  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  his  Majesty's  forces 
than  all  the  natives  of  the  Philippines,  with 
Cuba  thrown  in  besides. 

When  Don  Enrique  saw  the  eyes  of  the 
stately  lady  who  had  come  to  him  in  place  of 
his  little  girl,  he  was  comforted,  for  so  the 
little  maid  whom  he  gave  to  the  Mother  Su 
perior  had  looked  at  him.  And  Tia  Maria 
had  good  report  to  make. 

"  She  is  the  best,  dearest,  kindest  child  in 
the  world,"  said  Tia  Maria.  "  She  is  as  good 
as  the  Virgin  herself,  and  never  has  a  fault. 
Only  she  will  not  keep  her  feet  dry;  and  oh! 
Don  Enrique,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  to  work 
to  make  her  take  care  of  her  complexion  —  " 
I  suppose  old  servants  are  the  same  all  the 
world  over. 

So  Don  Enrique  received  his  little  girl,  the 
very  finest  little  girl  in  all  the  world,  which 
is  not  surprising  when  you  consider  what  a 
very  great  man  her  father  was. 

While  the  two  were  getting  acquainted,  as 
Don  Enrique  put  it,  he  condescended  to  share 
Dona  Mercedes  with  the  little  world  of  Manila. 
He  gave  a  great  ball,  and  his  Excellency 
danced  the  old  minuet  with  her,  whereat  the 


144  The  Little  Gods 

beholders  cried  that  the  days  of  chivalry  were 
come  again.  Dona  Mercedes  smiled  a  little, 
and  blushed  a  little,  and  the  stout,  red-faced 
old  soldier  led  her  to  his  stout,  jolly  old  wife 
with  the  remark :  "  My  dear,  when  you  are 
good  enough  to  die,  here  is  your  successor, 
if  —  "  and  he  dropped  forty  years  and  a  dozen 
campaigns  to  make  Mercedes  a  wonderful 
bow. 

"  Tush,  old  wives  are  good  enough  for  such 
as  you,"  said  her  Excellency  bluntly.  "  Sit 
down  here  beside  me,  my  dear,  and  tell  me 
how  you  like  Manila." 

"  It  is  very  good  to  be  with  my  father 
again,"  said  Dona  Mercedes  simply,  "  and  you 
are  all  so  kind  to  me." 

And  then  the  young  officers,  who  had  been 
tugging  at  their  fierce  moustaches  and  settling 
their  chins  in  their  stocks,  came  tramping  stif 
fly  up  and  begging  for  the  honor.  So  it  went 
on  for  several  weeks,  till  one  day  her  Excel 
lency  called.  "  Valdez,"  said  she,  in  her 
.straightforward  way,  "are  you  going  to 
marry  your  daughter  or  not?" 

"  That,  madame,"  he  replied,  "  depends 
on  —  " 

"  On  whether  you  find  any  one  good  enough 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  145 

for  her,  eh?"  said  her  Excellency.  "And 
there  is  no  one,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Not  one  in  the  world,"  he  replied  gravely, 
but  with  the  gleam  of  a  smile.  Most  people 
smiled  when  that  simple  old  lady  was  near. 
"  Not  one  in  the  world,  madame,"  said  Don 
Enrique.  "  But  marriage  is  not  a  necessity 
of  life;  my  little  girl  and  I  will  be  happy  to 
gether  for  a  time,  I  hope." 

"  Love  of  the  saints,"  cried  her  Excellency, 
"  he  is  as  young  as  his  daughter !  He  thinks 
to  keep  the  bees  always  from  his  honey.  Look 
at  their  eyes ;  they  are  boy  and  girl  together ! 
God  grant  you  may  be  successful,  Valdez. 
She  is  a  dear,  sweet  child.  But  take  her  away 
to  your  kingdom,"  she  added.  "  Take  an  old 
woman's  advice.  They  are  busy  bees,  and 
gay  uniforms  are  unsettling  for  little  girls 
who  are  to  love  only  their  fathers.  And,  be 
sides,  I  can't  find  an  aide  to  do  an  errand  for 
me  while  she's  in  town !  " 

So  Dona  Mercedes,  having  had  only  a  sip 
of  the  life  most  people  lead,  passed  from  the 
lost  world  of  the  convent  to  the  lost  world  of 
the  valley,  with  her  proud,  dainty  ways,  and  a 
friendly,  inquiring  smile  in  her  eyes  for  every 
one  she  met.  I  suppose  you  and  I  can't  under- 


146  The  Little  Gods 

stand  how  Dona  Mercedes  felt ;  one  must  step 
directly  from  the  convent  to  the  world  to  do 
that.  But  of  course  her  smile  was  friendly, 
for  she  had  never  known  any  one  who  was 
not  a  friend;  and  it  was  inquiring,  for  the 
world  was  all  one  great  puzzle  to  her,  and  she 
was  interested  in  the  multitude  of  people  she 
saw  doing  so  many  seemingly  hard  and  dis 
agreeable  and  useless  things.  Of  bad  things, 
of  course,  she  knew  nothing,  except  for  some 
words  in  her  prayers.  So  Dona  Mercedes, 
young  woman  and  little  girl,  looked  into  the 
world  with  frank,  interested  eyes. 

And  a  very  delightful  place  she  found  it. 
There  was  the  great  house,  with  its  thick  walls 
and  heavily  barred  windows  and  big,  cool, 
dark  rooms.  There  was  the  garden,  with  the 
old  familiar  orange  and  lemon  trees  and  tin 
kling  fountains.  There  were  strange,  sweet, 
new  trees  as  well,  ylang-ylang  and  clove  and 
cinnamon,  and  a  hundred  other  cool,  fragrant, 
snowy-blossomed  things,  and  poincianas,  and 
orchids,  and  great  ferns,  and  palms.  Best  of 
all,  trained  up  and  about  her  windows,  were 
real  Spanish  roses,  big  white  and  pink  and  red 
and  yellow  fellows.  And  at  the  far  end  of 
the  garden  was  a  wide-spreading  old  veteran 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  147 

of  a  mango,  big  as  a  small  mountain,  and  in  its 
shade  a  little  summer-house  for  her,  almost 
hidden  in  a  tangle  of  roses.  Here  she  used 
to  sit  through  the  day,  embroidering  or  read 
ing,  or  dozing.  It  might  have  seemed  a  dull 
life  to  you  and  me,  but  then  we  never  knew 
the  quiet  of  the  convent,  and  the  peace  of  it. 

Besides,  she  looked  forward  always  to  the 
evening.  You  never  knew  that  either,  per 
haps  —  the  coolness  and  delight  of  the  trop 
ical  evening  coming  after  the  long  glare  of 
the  day,  when  through  the  windows  steals  a 
fresh  damp  air,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flow 
ers  and  moist  earth,  and  one  hears  the  strange 
cries  of  birds  and  insects,  and  sees  the  big, 
silent,  fluttering  bats  and  the  fireflies  that  make 
a  living  fountain  of  every  tree;  and  all  these 
but  passing  shadows  on  the  background  of  a 
dim,  happy,  sleepy  world  of  darkness. 

Most  of  all,  Dona  Mercedes  was  interested 
in  the  creatures  who  worked  and  played  in 
this  huge  new  world.  First  there  was  her 
father.  The  long  evenings  were  never  too 
long  with  him,  for  Don  Enrique  cast  aside  all 
the  gravity  and  dignity  and  silence,  and 
laughed  and  jested  and  talked  and  dreamed 
with  his  little  girl,  till  the  grandfather  of  all 


148  The  Little  Gods 

the  lizards  became  disgusted  at  the  unseemly 
disturbance  of  the  established  order,  and  re 
tired  with  an  indignant  flip  of  the  tail,  which 
nearly  lost  him  that  brittle  member. 

Then  there  was  good,  grumbling  Tia  Maria, 
who  found  it  hard  to  adjust  herself  to  new 
conditions.  "  How  can  one  live  in  a  country 
where  there  are  no  sidewalks  ? "  Tia  Maria 
mourned,  "  and  where  there  are  monkeys  and 
bats  —  ur-gh-h  —  and  scorpions  and  spiders 
—  oogh-h !  Spiders  big  as  that,  child !  "  cried 
Tia  Maria,  pushing  out  a  sturdy  foot  from 
under  her  limp  black  skirts. 

Then  there  were  the  servants,  with  their 
eternal  cheery  smiles  and  careless  ways,  who 
first  revealed  to  Dona  Mercedes  that  she  in 
herited  the  family  temper.  And  the  women 
and  the  little  brown  babies  in  the  town,  and 
the  dull  men  in  the  fields  —  Mercedes  won 
dered  if  it  was  not  very  hot  and  unpleasant  to 
work  in  the  fields,  and  so  smiled  most  kindly 
at  them,  till  they  forgot  their  sullenness  and 
smiled  back. 

There  were  the  treacherous  river  and  the 
great  clumsy  boats,  and  the  fierce-looking 
river-men  with  their  knives  and  the  bright 
handkerchiefs  about  their  heads.  And  once 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  149 

she  met  some  wild  men  in  the  streets  —  sturdy 
fellows  with  great  muscles  and  long  black 
hair,  stiff  and  rough  as  the  mane  of  a  horse, 
dressed  mostly,  to  her  frightened  gaze,  in 
shields  and  spears  and  head-axes  and  knives. 
But  when  she  smiled  timidly,  they  responded 
with  wide  grins,  and  tried  to  sell  her  little 
silver  pipes  and  copper  betelnut-boxes. 

So  Dona  Mercedes  moved  about,  learning 
many  things  concerning  life,  even  in  that  far- 
off  valley.  She  was  destined  to  learn  the 
greatest  thing  of  all  there,  but  that  came  later. 
I've  often  wished  I  could  have  seen  the  stately, 
slender  child-woman  in  those  days,  with  her 
big,  inquisitive  eyes  —  seen  her  just  as  the 
Captain  did,  when  he  came  tearing  into  town 
to  see  her  and  nearly  ran  over  her. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Captain  Manuel  to 
come  that  way,  forty  miles  in  four  hours, 
when  after  two  slow  months  the  news  of  her 
arrival  penetrated  far  into  the  mountains, 
where  he  was  happily  busy  hunting  outlaws. 
It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  gallop  full  tilt 
down  on  the  lady  he  had  come  to  see,  before 
he  knew  she  was  there.  And  it  was  character 
istic  of  him  also  to  rein  his  horse  back  on  its 
haunches  with  one  tug,  and  sweep  his  hat  off 


150  The  Little  Gods 

with  a  gesture  that  would  have  done  honor 
to  Quixote  himself,  and  insist  on  escorting  the 
lady  home,  despite  the  uneasy  grumbling  of 
Tia  Maria,  and  a  sudden  access  of  stateliness 
on  Dona  Mercedes'  part. 

Everything  Captain  Manuel  did  was  char 
acteristic,  for  he  was  a  Catalan.  And  while 
no  one  can  foretell  what  a  Catalan  may  do, 
it  is  always  safe  to  say  that  he  will  do  what 
he  pleases,  and  do  it  with  all  his  might.  And 
this  gray-eyed,  fair-haired  boy  with  the  frank, 
smiling  face,  had  chosen  to  play  at  living,  thus 
far.  He  was  the  commander  of  the  Guardia 
Civil  in  all  the  southern  valley,  put  in  that 
unenviable  post  that  puzzled  bureaucrats  might 
be  saved  from  his  unbounded  energy.  And 
he  played  with  the  bandits  and  outlaws  and 
savages,  purposely  left  them  undisturbed  that 
they  might  grow  bold  and  troublesome,  and 
then  went  out  with  a  laugh  and  destroyed 
them,  as  you  might  a  cage  of  rats.  When  the 
fighting  was  over,  he  would  come  back  un 
wearied  and  amuse  himself  with  wondrous 
speculations  in  tobacco,  or  stake  his  last  peso 
on  a  stroke  at  billiards  with  Don  Enrique. 
The  most  fascinating  of  all  the  playthings  he 
had  discovered  in  his  brief  life  was  something 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  151 

he  was  pleased  to  call  love.  He  played  at  that 
with  his  usual  wholeheartedness,  till  a  score 
of  girls  up  and  down  the  valley  were  ever 
watching  for  the  lithe  figure  on  the  wild  black 
horse,  and  more  than  a  score  of  men  were 
breathing  threats  of  vengeance.  Whereat  the 
Captain  laughed  boyishly,  and  invited  the  dis 
contented  to  step  out  and  settle  it  once  for  all 
with  pistol  or  rifle  or  knife  or  spear  or  bolo 
or  bare  hands. 

I'm  sorry  you  couldn't  have  known  Cap 
tain  Manuel  instead  of  merely  hearing  about 
him  from  me,  for  you  may  get  the  idea  that 
he  was  a  good-for-nothing  young  reprobate, 
whereas  he  was  only  a  gay,  good-hearted  boy, 
dissipating  his  splendid  strength  in  a  hundred 
useless  ways,  just  because  no  one  had  ever 
shown  him  a  useful  one.  But  he  was  a  dan 
gerous  person,  with  his  ready  tongue  and  toss 
ing  hair,  to  come  prancing  before  the  wonder 
ing  eyes  of  that  bewildered  woman-child, 
Dona  Mercedes.  Dangerous,  I  mean,  to  Don 
Enrique's  dreams  of  the  future.  For  of  course 
he  fell  in  love  with  Dona  Mercedes  at  once. 
He  was  quite  sure  of  that,  before  he  had 
walked  a  dozen  steps  with  the  lady,  that  first 
night. 


152  The  Little  Gods 

With  him,  to  decide  that  he  was  in  love  was 
to  be  there ;  so  behold  the  Captain,  of  a  morn 
ing  after  drill,  come  clanking  to  the  little  sum 
mer-house,  all  brave  in  sword  and  spurs,  to 
sit  and  regale  Dona  Mercedes  with  weird  tales 
of  the  little  rights,  till  terrified  Tia  Maria 
crossed  herself  and  peered  anxiously  up  into 
the  branches  of  the  great  mango,  more  than 
half  expecting  to  see  a  naked  head-hunter 
there  ready  to  leap  upon  her  venerable  wig. 

And  Dona  Mercedes,  poor,  little,  stately 
Mercedes,  watched  this  strange  newcomer  as 
she  watched  all  others,  but  with  a  shade  more 
interest,  for  she  felt  that  she  understood  him. 
The  frank,  friendly  smile  in  his  eyes  seemed 
so  exactly  what  she  felt  to  all  the  world. 

Soon  she  began  to  find  his  presence  a  wel 
come  relief  to  the  length  of  the  days,  and 
missed  him  when  he  did  not  come.  Don  En 
rique  should  have  taken  care  then.  But  Don 
Enrique  was  careless.  In  the  first  place,  it 
was  rather  a  strenuous  undertaking  to  keep 
Captain  Manuel  away  from  where  he  chose 
to  be.  And  in  the  second  place,  any  fear  that 
he  could  awaken  the  heart  in  Dona  Mercedes 
was  absurd.  He  was  a  penniless  youngster, 
without  a  "  de  "  or  an  "  Y  "  or  a  "  Don  "  to 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  153 

his  name,  and  she  was  Dona  Mercedes,  a 
Valdez  and  a  Vegas;  and,  furthermore,  she 
had  him,  Don  Enrique,  to  fill  her  every  want. 
So  Don  Enrique  smiled  and  jested  and  talked 
and  dreamed  of  an  evening  in  the  great  din 
ing-room,  and  was  very  happy  with  his  little 
girl.  And  Captain  Manuel  laughed  and  joked 
and  sang  in  the  little  summer-house  of  a  morn 
ing,  and  was  in  heaven,  or  thought  he  was, 
which,  after  all,  amounts  to  just  as  much  while 
it  lasts.  And  Dona  Mercedes  looked  on  them 
all  with  friendly,  inquiring  eyes. 

At  last  one  morning,  the  Captain  was  hold 
ing  a  skein  of  silk  for  her  to  wind.  Tia  Maria 
had  fallen  into  an  uneasy  doze  through  very 
excess  of  terror  at  the  latest  tale.  Several 
times  their  eyes  met  when  the  skein  was  tan 
gled  —  such  a  tiny  skein  of  golden-yellow  silk 
to  mean  so  much.  And  each  time  Dona  Mer 
cedes  became  more  stately  and  more  timid, 
while  the  Captain's  cheeks  burned  like  a  boy's. 
Their  talk  died  away  to  broken  sentences,  and 
then  the  hush  of  noontide  lay  over  the  great, 
hot,  fragrant  garden,  and  only  the  heavy  dro 
ning  of  bees  among  the  roses  broke  the  still 
ness.  Dona  Mercedes  put  out  a  trembling 
hand  to  clear  another  snarl,  and  —  Tia  Maria 


154  The  Little  Gods 

popped  bolt  upright  in  her  chair.  "  Blood  of 
all  the  blessed  saints!"  she  cried.  "What 
was  that  I  heard  ?  "  And  she  peered  up  into 
the  gently  stirring  branches  of  the  old  tree, 
and  made  ready  to  flee. 

"  It  was  a  wild  man,  perhaps,"  said  the  Cap 
tain,  with  a  tremulous  laugh;  and  Dona  Mer 
cedes  took  up  the  conversation  quite  as  com 
posedly  as  if  she  had  lived  in  the  world  all  her 
life.  But  when  the  Captain  was  going,  she 
murmured :  "  You  must  tell  Don  Enrique  for 
me." 

Of  course  he  told  Don  Enrique  at  once,  and 
of  course  Don  Enrique  was  quite  astonished 
at  the  commonplace  thing  which  had  been 
going  on  right  under  his  patrician  nose,  and 
quite  scandalized,  and  very  positive,  in  his 
grave,  courteous  way,  that  all  such  thoughts 
must  be  dropped  at  once  —  positive  as  only  a 
great  man  who  ruled  a  valley  could  be.  And 
Captain  Manuel  was  quite  sure  that  he  loved 
the  lady,  could  not  live  without  her,  would 
win  her  in  the  end  —  sure  as  only  a  big,  im 
petuous  heart  like  his  could  make  a  man.  So 
Don  Enrique  politely  regretted  that  he  could 
not  have  the  honor  of  receiving  the  Captain 
in  his  home  again,  and  the  Captain  bowed  very 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  155 

low  and  clanked  out  under  the  big,  gloomy 
arch  of  the  gateway  for  almost  the  last  time. 

Now  I  doubt  if  either  of  them  had  really 
been  in  love.  But  they  were  ready  to  grow 
into  it,  and  forced  separation  has  been  a  fer 
tile  soil  for  propagating  love,  ever  since  the 
world  began.  The  little  girl  was  very  dutiful 
and  sat  with  her  father  every  evening,  merry 
and  smiling  and  tender  as  ever;  but  across 
the  big,  gleaming  table  she  may  sometimes 
have  seen  a  vision  of  a  longing,  boyish  face. 
Don  Enrique  had  seen  visions  across  that  same 
table,  you  remember.  Perhaps  in  time  Dona 
Mercedes  might  have  watched  the  vision  till 
it  came  to  mean  more  to  her  than  the  great 
house  and  the  family  name  and  the  love  of 
her  father  himself. 

And  the  Captain  fell  into  a  very  fever  of 
devotion,  and  for  more  than  a  month  he  stayed 
in  his  quarters,  writing  Catalan  love-songs  on 
the  edges  of  commissary  returns,  and  gazing 
gloomily  at  his  sword  and  spurs.  Billiards 
and  cards  knew  him  no  more ;  the  black  horse 
fretted  in  the  paddock  and  looked  unsayable 
things  at  the  frightened  groom;  the  brown- 
skinned  girls  of  the  countryside  lived  in  peace 
and  amity  with  their  reconciled  lovers.  Per- 


156  The  Little  Gods 

haps  the  Captain's  devotion  might  have  en 
dured,  and  all  that  splendid  energy  of  his 
might  have  been  turned  to  good  and  useful 
things  at  last. 

All  that  is  mere  speculation.  We  shall  never 
know,  and  it  does  not  matter.  The  day  of 
Spain  was  passing  in  the  Islands.  Outside 
there  had  long  been  rumors  of  ugly  things; 
sudden,  secret  death  and  smoldering  insurrec 
tion,  killing  of  priests  and  burning  of  towns 
and  terror-stricken  people  everywhere.  Now 
at  last  they  penetrated  even  to  the  valley,  — 
stories  of  raids  on  distant  haciendas,  and  as 
sassinations  on  lonely  trails,  and  a  little  army 
massed  in  the  foot-hills  back  of  Santa  Lucia. 
It  was  as  if  a  chill  wind  swept  over  the  sunny 
plains  and  rolling  hills  and  busy,  treacherous 
river,  and  none  of  the  lean,  bearded,  sun- 
bronzed  men  could  tell  whence  it  came. 

Don  Enrique,  that  great  man,  did  not  heed 
it.  When  news  came  of  a  wondrous  great 
buck  seen  near  Ascaris,  he  insisted  on  setting 
out  to  capture  it.  "  A  bit  of  venison  is  what 
you  need  to  put  the  roses  back,"  he  said  to 
Dona  Mercedes,  standing  tall  and  strong  in 
his  boots,  and  tapping  her  cheek  with  his 
gauntlet.  "  Insurrection !  Nonsense,  chi- 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  157 

quit  a,  it  is  only  the  talk  of  these  poor,  foolish 
Indians.  I  wave  my  riding-whip  at  them,  and 
phooh !  "  —  he  blew  a  quick  breath,  kissed 
her,  and  rode  off  in  the  gray  chill  of  the  morn 
ing. 

But  toward  evening  a  man  dragged  him 
self  in  —  old  Canute  the  huntsman,  cut  and 
bleeding  —  and  told  Dona  Mercedes  how  the 
party  had  been  ambuscaded  and  had  fought 
its  way  to  a  thicket  of  bamboo,  and  how  they 
must  have  help  or  perish. 

While  she  stood  half  stunned  and  helpless, 
came  Captain  Manuel,  uncalled,  and  said  sim 
ply  :  "  I  am  going  to  him,  Dona  mia."  He 
did  not  tell  her  that  all  the  country  was  up 
in  arms,  that  he  was  going  to  his  death.  I 
doubt  if  he  even  thought  of  that,  as  he  stood 
before  her  and  saw  her  big,  beseeching  eyes. 
All  the  carelessness  and  lightness  of  his  na 
ture  fell  away,  as  he  stood  before  the  lady  for 
whom  he  was  to  die.  And  yet,  as  he  turned 
to  go,  a  bit  of  the  spirit  of  old  Spain  stirred 
in  him,  and  he  bent  toward  her.  "  I  kiss  your 
hand,  my  lady,"  he  said. 

Then  Dona  Mercedes  understood,  and  with 
a  little  cry  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 
One  little  moment  she  knew  that  all  the  secret 


158  The  Little  Gods 

of  life  was  hers  —  and  then  she  took  a  white 
rose  from  her  hair  and  gave  it  to  him.  "  My 
colors !  "  she  said,  and  none  of  her  ancient 
house  had  ever  stood  more  proud  and  stately 
to  watch  her  knight  go  out  to  battle,  and  none 
ever  went  more  steadfast  and  strong  and  lov 
able  than  that  boy  of  the  common  folk  of 
Catalufia. 

There's  not  much  more  to  tell,  of  course. 
The  Captain  found  Don  Enrique,  and  at  dawn 
they  went  out  together,  with  their  men,  in  one 
of  those  deeds  of  splendid  courage  which  once 
made  their  country  mistress  of  half  the  world. 
But  a  poor,  foolish  Indian,  with  a  well-cleaned 
Mauser  and  a  firm  rest  at  five  hundred  metres, 
and  the  wrongs  of  three  centuries  to  right, 
stopped  their  poor,  proud,  Spanish  hearts. 

The  few  men  who  were  left  brought  them 
back  to  Dona  Mercedes,  standing  pale  and 
stately  in  the  great  courtyard,  and  on  Don 
Enrique's  breast  they  found  a  miniature  which 
might  have  been  his  little  girl,  but  was  not, 
and  on  the  Captain's  a  white  rose  dabbled  with 
red. 

As  I  said,  all  this  happened  when  the  world 
was  young.  I  know,  for  I  rode  through 
Echague  once,  and  I  saw  Dona  Mercedes' 


Valley  of  Sunshine  and  Shadow  159 

eyes.  They  are  friendly  and  inquiring  still, 
but  the  smile  comes  from  an  old,  old  heart. 
And  yet,  after  -all,  is  it  so  bad  ?  Don  Enrique 
and  the  Captain  are  very  quiet  indeed  in  the 
great  garden,  and  perhaps  the  valley  is  none 
the  less  happy  that  their  imperious  wills  are 
quiet,  too.  The  river  still  runs,  and  the  boat 
men  sing  on  its  long  reaches,  and  the  hot 
sunny  air  floats  over  field  and  hill  and  forest 
with  vivifying  strength,  and  you  would  hardly 
know  that  they  were  gone.  Perhaps  Don  En 
rique  might  never  have  been  reconciled.  Per 
haps  the  Captain  might  have  changed.  There 
are  a  dozen  perhapses.  And  now  Dona  Mer 
cedes  has  the  great  house  —  after  all  it  is  not 
unlike  a  convent  in  its  quiet  and  its  peace  — 
and  the  memory  of  two  strong  men  who  loved 
her  until  death. 


CHAPTER   VII 

WHAT   OKIMI   LEARNED 

SLOWLY  the  picture  faded,  and  somewhere 
near  me  I  heard  the  priestess  of  Lai  sobbing. 

"  You  saw  it,  too  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  it  too.  And  oh ! 
I'm  sorry  for  her,  but  it  was  better  that  than 
nothing.  Far  better  that  than  nothing! 
There's  nothing  else  in  life  like  love  —  " 

Suddenly,  in  the  solemn  hush  of  that  dim, 
lamp-lighted  room,  I  heard  a  chuckle  of  cyn 
ical  amusement.  The  priestess  of  Lai  heard 
it,  too,  and  faced  me  with  beautiful,  blazing 
eyes,  and  flaming  cheeks  still  damp  with  tears. 

"  Did  you  dare  to  laugh  at  me !  "  she  cried. 
"  I  could  kill  you.  Did  you  dare?  " 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  I  believe,  as  you  do,  that 
love  —  " 

Again  that  rustle  of  malicious  laughter 
crept  across  the  incense-laden  air.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  woman  a  sudden  terror  showed,  and 
she  shrank  close  to  me. 


What  Okimi  Learned  161 

"  Who  is  it  laughs  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  This 
is  not  the  first  time  I've  heard  it,  when  I  spoke 
and  thought  of  love.  It  —  frightens  me. 
But,"  she  cried  with  sudden  energy,  "  I  will 
believe  that  love  is  everything.  If  it  is  not, 
what  becomes  of  us  poor  women?  Are  our 
lives  all  wasted  on  a  dream  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  laughs," 
I  said.  "  Some  evil  influence  seems  to  dog 
my  path,  that  turns  all  the  smiling  face  of  the 
earth  to  dust  and  ashes.  But  do  not  doubt, 
and  I  will  not.  True  love  is  the  one  eternal 
thing  in  our  mortal  lives.  It  is  greater  than 
we  are  ourselves,  and  it  is  never  wasted  —  " 

Suddenly  the  flames,  in  their  silver  sockets, 
sucked  upward  once  and  then  were  gone,  and 
we  were  left  in  inky  darkness,  the  priestess  of 
Lai  and  I,  cowering  close  together  like  two 
frightened  children,  while  ghostly  garments 
rustled  all  about  us,  and  ghostly  voices  whis 
pered,  and  we  saw  what  Okimi  learned. 

The  girl  Okimi  is  the  daughter  of  parents 
who  are  poor  and  so  honest  that  they  sold 
their  daughter  for  money  to  pay  their  debts, 
just  as  soon  as  it  was  possible.  The  girl  went 
down  to  the  ship  and  away  across  the  radiant 


162  The  Little  Gods 

Inland  Sea  without  shame,  and  without  a 
murmur  at  her  fate,  for  such  things  happen 
so  often  that  the  gods  have  no  time  to  listen 
to  complaints. 

That  is  how  she  came  to  be  living  in  a 
strange  land,  in  a  gilded  house  in  a  garden 
where  big  paper  lanterns  glow  in  the  shrubbery 
every  night.  Okimi  soon  discovered  the  gar 
den,  and  learned  to  be  fairly  happy  there  in 
her  placid,  childish  way,  tickling  the  gold-fish 
in  the  fountain  basin  with  long  blades  of  grass, 
and  laughing  to  see  them  dart  away,  playing 
with  the  monkeys,  and  crooning  little  flower- 
songs  to  the  big,  unfriendly  ylang-ylang. 

It  was  all  very  well  while  the  day  lasted. 
But  when  the  evening  shadows  began  to  gather 
in  the  corners,  Mama  San  would  call  from  the 
balcony,  "  Now,  girls !  "  Okimi  tried  to  be 
very  obedient,  and  when  Mama  San  called  she 
would  rush  away  as  fast  as  she  could,  with 
her  funny  little  toed-in  steps,  to  dab  on  the 
rouge  and  put  on  the  silken  kimono  and  smile 
bravely  over  the  samisen.  Mama  San  said 
men  like  a  girl  who  smiles  and  sings  and  is 
gay,  and  even  Okimi  was  wise  enough  to  know 
that  the  more  men  liked  her,  the  sooner  she 
would  be  free  and  back  in  sight  of  dear  old 


What  Okimi  Learned  163 

Fuji.  That's  what  she  always  called  him, 
"  dear  old  Fuji,"  a  rather  familiar  name  to 
give  to  a  sacred  mountain,  but  then  Okimi  was 
a  little  girl,  and  big  Fujiyama  had  never 
seemed  to  mind. 

Okimi  never  knew  just  how  it  came  about 
that  the  girls,  Haristo  and  Ghana  and  the  rest, 
began  to  laugh  at  her  and  to  say  things  in  the 
English  she  found  it  so  hard  to  understand. 
She  just  managed  to  make  out  these  words : 
"  Okimi  San  got  sooeetart !  Okimi  San  got 
sooeetart !  "  She  ran  to  find  her  oracle,  Mama 
San. 

"  What  is  this  '  sooeetart '  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  It  is  a  foreign  custom,"  said  Mama  San. 
"  These  white  men,  they  become  as  mad.  It 
is  one  girl  always,  and  if  she  speaks  with  an 
other  they  are  very  '  jalous '  and  wish  to 
fight." 

"  Oh,  I  know !  "  cried  Okimi.  "  It  is  like 
their  honorable  marriage." 

"  It  is  not  like  the  marriage  of  Nippon. 
They  have  somewhat  that  they  call  '  love.' 
They  say  always,  *  I  love  yeeoo,  sooeetart,' 
I  have  heard  them.  When  I  was  young  like 
you,  I  had  many  sooeetart,"  said  Mama  San, 
puffing  complacently  at  her  cigarette. 


164  The  Little  Gods 

"And  what  is  this  thing  'love'?"  Okimi 
persisted. 

"  Pshaw,  child,  how  should  I  know  ?  It  is 
some  madness  inside  one;  we  have  it  not  in 
Japan.  Run  and  play  with  the  monkeys." 

So  Okimi  went  and  played  with  the  mon 
keys,  and  asked  them  what  love  is.  She  was 
a  curious  little  thing.  But  they  only  grinned 
horribly  at  her  and  chattered,  and  the  gold 
fish  did  not  seem  to  know,  and  the  ylang-ylang 
blossoms  were  silent  about  it,  though  she  sang 
them  her  very  prettiest  song. 

"  Foolish  flowers,"  she  cried,  "  you  do  not 
know  our  tongue,"  and  she  flung  them  in  the 
fountain  basin  and  set  the  bright  fish  scurry 
ing. 

And  still  the  girls,  the  tired-looking,  laugh 
ing  little  girls,  would  cry,  "  Okimi  San  got 
sooeetart !  Okimi  San  got  sooeetart !  "  And 
still  Okimi  San  went  on  asking  the  trees  and 
the  flowers  and  the  birds,  "  What  is  sooeetart  ? 
What  is  this  '  love  '  ?  "  And  they  never  could 
understand  and  answer. 

Even  Buddh  would  not  tell  her,  even  black, 
u§ly>  good  little  Buddh,  who  sat  cross-legged 
above  the  pyramid  of  dough-cakes  on  the 
dresser  and  protected  Okimi.  Buddh  would 


What  Okimi  Learned  165 

not  tell  her,  though  she  asked  him  time  and 
time  again,  with  her  head  on  the  floor  at  his 
feet,  as  humbly  as  could  be. 

So  one  night  when  the  man  they  called 
Sweetheart  came,  Okimi  asked  him.  He 
looked  blank  at  first,  and  she  was  afraid  he 
was  not  going  to  tell  her.  Then  suddenly 
he  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
on  her  laughing  eyes  and  pouting  lips  and  lit 
tle,  dimpled  chin.  "  That  is  love,"  said  he. 

Now  Okimi  had  long  been  practising  that 
honorably  foolish  and  disgusting  foreign 
habit,  the  kiss.  She  tried  hard,  for  Mama 
San,  the  oracle,  said  men  like  girls  who  know 
how  to  kiss.  Generally  she  shut  her  eyes  very 
tight  and  screwed  up  her  lips  and  held  her 
breath.  But  this  time,  when  Sooeetart  said, 
"  This  is  love,"  and  his  lips  touched  hers,  she 
seemed  to  have  no  breath  at  all,  and  her  eyes 
stayed  open  and  looked  right  into  his,  and  — 
Okimi  wriggled  out  of  Sweetheart's  arms  and 
ran  away  as  fast  as  she  could  with  her  funny 
little  toed-in  steps. 

And  all  the  girls  together  couldn't  pull  her 
back.  But  next  morning  she  gave  the  juiciest 
orange  to  dear,  ugly  little  Buddh  who  sat 
cross-legged  in  the  corner  and  protected  her. 


166  The  Little  Gods 

She  called  Sweetheart  "  Jiji "  after  that. 
Jiji  means  old  man,  but  if  you  know  how  to 
say  it  just  right,  it  can  mean  dearest,  littlest, 
biggest,  belovedest  old  man.  Okimi  said  it 
that  way. 

Jiji  made  a  most  delightful  playmate,  after 
Okimi  had  learned  not  to  be  afraid  of  him. 
He  was  so  big;  when  he  knelt  on  a  cushion, 
one  of  his  feet  went  under  the  bed,  and  she 
had  to  move  a  chair  to  make  room  for  the 
other.  And  he  was  so  strong,  and  insisted  on 
carrying  her  all  about  the  house  in  a  sort  of 
triumphal  procession,  whereat  the  monkeys 
and  parrots  chattered  and  shrieked  in  amaze 
ment,  while  Okimi  kicked  him  in  the  ribs  and 
cried  "  Gid  ap  "  in  Japanese,  and  swore  at  him 
innocently  in  Tagalo,  the  way  she  had  heard 
the  native  coachman  talk  to  his  horses.  Such 
romps  as  they  used  to  have. 

But  she  liked  the  quiet  hours  best,  when 
they  were  alone  together,  and  the  samisen 
waked  the  echoes  of  a  thousand  sorrows.  It 
was  sweet  to  hear  the  echoes  of  the  sorrows, 
and  then  look  into  Jiji's  eyes.  And  then  he 
had  to  see  if  anything  had  changed  since  his 
last  visit,  and  they  would  make  an  important 
tour  of  inspection,  hand  in  hand.  There  was 


What  Okimi  Learned  167 

the  little  pot  of  iris  which  she  was  trying  so 
hard  to  make  live  in  this  strange  land.  And 
the  wrinkled  old  dwarf  of  a  pine-tree,  not 
much  taller  than  Jiji's  longest  finger.  And 
there  was  Buddh,  who  sat  behind  the  little 
bowl  of  blazing  oil  and  protected  Okimi. 
Often,  after  Jiji  was  asleep,  she  would  creep 
out  very  softly  to  kneel  and  say,  "  Dear 
Buddh,  mighty  Buddh,  now  we  know  what 
love  is.  We  thank  thee  for  telling  us."  And 
ugly  little  Buddh,  sitting  there  cross-legged  in 
the  tiny,  flackering  spot  of  light,  smiled  back 
at  her  most  knowingly. 

All  the  girls  liked  Jiji.  He  was  always 
making  them  laugh,  and  laughter  is  a  pleasant 
thing.  Somehow  the  food  wouldn't  stay  on 
his  chop-sticks,  and  so  one  or  two  of  them 
must  come  to  his  relief.  They  would  pick 
out  the  snowiest  grains  of  rice  for  him,  and 
the  juiciest  bits  of  fish  and  seaweed,  and  the 
fattest  of  the  little  green  plums.  Sometimes 
they  would  get  to  racing  with  each  other,  and 
pop  things  into  Jiji's  mouth  till  he  could  only 
hold  up  his  hands  and  shake  his  head  in 
mournful  protest.  Then,  when  he  got  his 
breath,  he  was  as  likely  to  say  "  Doyo  mashi 
tashi "  as  anything. 


168  The  Little  Gods 

Jiji  was  very  proud  of  his  accomplishment 
in  the  language.  He  had  one  phrase  which 
he  used  as  often  as  he  could.  It  was  "  Sayo- 
nara  de  gans"  and  it  always  made  the  girls 
laugh  very  heartily,  for  they  didn't  know  what 
" de  gans"  meant.  Jiji  didn't  know  either, 
so  when  they  laughed  he  thought  he  had  made 
a  joke  in  an  unfamiliar  tongue,  and  he 
laughed,  too.  Then  they  would  all  laugh,  and 
Jiji  would  go  swinging  down  to  his  carriage 
with  his  big  strides,  and  the  girls  would  all 
crowd  to  the  window  and  call  after  him,  as  he 
drove  away,  "  Sayonara!  Goo'  bye,  Jiji  San. 
Sayonara  de  gons!" 

Okimi  didn't  run  to  the  window  with  the 
rest,  but  hid  in  her  room,  those  days,  and  was 
very  busy.  A  festival  of  her  people  was  ap 
proaching,  and  she  had  determined  to  make 
for  Jiji  the  very  beautifullest  kimono  that  ever 
was  known.  From  Kobe  came  a  bolt  of  silk, 
the  wonderful  crepe  which  makes  you  catch 
your  breath  when  the  man  unrolls  it.  Blue, 
it  was,  and  softly  blended  from  the  deep,  quiet 
shadow  of  the  Inland  Sea  to  the  tint  that 
trembles  in  the  throat  of  an  unfolding  iris, 
and  the  artist-weaver  had  even  caught  the 
hint  of  color  which  rests  on  Fujiyama  when 


What  Okimi  Learned  169 

the  springtime  days  are  near.  And  over  all 
he  had  scattered  handful  after  lavish  handful 
of  snowy  cherry-blossoms. 

Okimi  hung  over  it  for  many  days,  not 
daring  to  cut  a  thing  so  precious.  And  she 
called  in  her  dearest  friend,  sweet-faced  little 
Misao  San,  and  they  held  it  up  to  the  light 
and  draped  it  about  them,  and  fondled  it,  and 
feasted  their  starved  little  souls  on  it. 

When  at  last  it  was  cut,  Okimi  would  sit 
on  the  floor  to  sew  while  Misao  sang  to  her. 
One  day  Misao  happened  to  remember  an  old, 
old  song.  It  goes  something  like  this : 

White  is  all  the  cherry-garden 
In  the  moonlight  there  below ; 
Poor  lost  petals  fluttering  downward 

Cold,  like  snow. 

I  am  lost  as  are  the  blossoms  — 
My  heart  is  full  of  lonely  pain  — 
Come  for  me,  dear  lord  my  master 

E'er  the  cherries  bloom  again. 

Misao  sang,  and  Okimi,  listening,  gazed  at 
something  very  far  away.  And  she  gathered 
up  the  pictured  blossoms,  and  pressed  them 
very  softly.  Misao,  looking  as  fluffy  and  gen 
tle  and  bewildered  as  a  kitten,  let  the  samisen 


170  The  Little  Gods 

fall  with  a  crash,  and  Okimi  came  back  to 
her. 

"  Okimi,  dear,"  said  Misao  timidly,  "  do 
you  know  what  love  is  ?  " 

"Love?"  echoed  Okimi.  "Why,  love 
is  — "  She  went  over  to  the  window. 
"  Look,  Misao  San,  the  iris  will  surely  blos 
som  soon.  Here  is  a  bud.  Love  is  —  and 
see,  the  so-strong  little  pine-tree  has  sent  out 
three  —  four  —  six  sharp  new  needles !  " 
She  patted  him  gently.  "  Love  —  why,  love 
is  everything." 

"  Can  you  see  it  ?  "  asked  dreamy,  practical 
little  Misao. 

Okimi  looked  at  the  swelling  iris,  and  the 
pure,  delicate  cherry-blossoms  on  the  silk,  and 
Buddh,  sitting  cross-legged  above  his  dough- 
cakes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Okimi,  "  you  can  see  it  every 
where." 

"  Can  you  feel  it  ?  " 

The  breeze  came  creeping  in,  sweet  with  the 
scents  of  the  green  world,  and  stirred  Okimi's 
sleeve. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  everywhere  you  feel 
it." 

"  And  hear  it  ?  "  asked  Misao,  wondering. 


What  Okimi  Learned  171 

A  cock  crowed  bravely  in  the  yard,  and 
there  came  a  burst  of  distant,  childish  laughter. 

"  And  hear  it  everywhere,"  said  Okimi,  and 
she  began  to  hum :  "  White  is  all  the  cherry- 
garden." 

"  This  love  must  be  a  strange  thing,"  said 
Misao  sleepily,  curling  up  on  the  cushions. 
"  I  do  not  understand  it.  Why  cannot  I  see 
it,  and  hear  it,  and  feel  it,  if  it  is  everywhere?  " 

So  Okimi  hid  in  her  room  and  sewed  away, 
day  after  day,  till  she  sewed  a  hole  into  the 
end  of  her  little  pink  finger.  Jiji  San  dis 
covered  it  and  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  Okimi  answered.  "  I  am 
just  making  a  worthless  gift  for  thee.  Soon 
it  will  be  the  New  Year's  of  Nippon,  and  it 
is  a  custom  to  bring  gifts." 

"What  gift  shall  I  bring  for  thee?"  Jiji 
asked. 

Okimi  made  a  wrinkle  come  in  her  fore 
head  before  she  could  answer  that  question. 
"  I  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  think  I  should 
like  a  monkey." 

"  But  there  are  many  monkeys  already," 
Jiji  objected. 

"  Chungo  pinches  me,  and  Bungsaksan  is 
very  dirty,"  Okimi  answered  gravely.  "  I 


172  The  Little  Gods 

want  a  monkey  all  my  own.  Just  a  very  little 
monkey,  little  as  that  —  "  She  held  out  her 
absurd  little  hand,  no  bigger  than  a  baby's. 
"  I  could  talk  to  him  when  you  are  not  here." 

"  Child,"  Jiji  promised  laughingly,  "  you 
shall  have  a  monkey  little  enough  to  go  climb 
ing  about  our  pine-tree." 

When  New  Year's  came,  Okimi  was  busy 
as  could  be.  There  was  the  "  Christmas- 
tree  "  to  make,  a  bare  branch  hung  from  the 
ceiling.  It  took  a  long  time  to  tie  the  flutter 
ing  strips  of  red  and  gilded  paper  on  all  the 
twigs,  and  fasten  the  tiny  white  storks  in  their 
places.  Then  there  were  new  dough-cakes  to 
be  made  for  Buddh,  and  his  bowl  to  be  filled 
with  special,  perfumed  oil.  And  she  must 
hunt  for  the  very  sweetest  spray  of  ylang- 
ylang,  and  go  to  buy  an  orange.  He  fared 
very  well  that  day,  the  good  little  Buddh  who 
sat  cross-legged  in  the  corner  and  smiled  back 
at  Okimi. 

When  all  that  was  finished,  and  Misao  San 
had  done  her  hair  and  she  had  dressed  in  her 
gayest  and  laid  out  the  new  kimono,  done  at 
last,  for  Jiji,  it  was  dusk  and  she  had  not  long 
to  wait,  there  in  the  happy,  expectant  silence. 

"  Here   is    thy    monkey,"    Jiji    said.      His 


What  Okimi  Learned  173 

voice  was  strained,  but  Okimi  did  not  notice 
it.  She  was  busy  with  the  frightened,  cling 
ing,  furry  thing. 

"  I  cannot  thank  thee,"  she  said.  "  Here  is 
an  insignificant  gift  I  have  made  for  thee. 
Put  it  on." 

Jiji  fingered  the  soft  folds  of  the  kimono 
nervously.  "  Not  now/'  he  said.  "  I  have 
to  go  now." 

"  What,  on  our  night?  "  cried  Okimi.  "  It 
is  well,"  she  added  bravely.  "  Thou  wilt  re 
turn  after  a  little  —  be  still,  little  brown  one, 
I  will  not  hurt  thee  —  and  we  will  eat  then. 
Mama  San  gave  me  a  beautiful  chicken  for 
us.  She  is  very  good  to  me." 

Jiji  grew  still  more  nervous.  "  Okimi  ca," 
he  said  at  last,  "I  —  well,  the  Regiment  sails 
to-morrow." 

"  Sails  ?  "  Okimi  repeated  dully,  sliding  to 
the  floor. 

"  To  America,"  Jiji  explained.  "  The  Regi 
ment  is  ordered  home,  and  I  must  go  with  it. 
I  am  a  soldier." 

"  Oh,"  said  Okimi.  Her  face,  as  she  hud 
dled  there  on  the  floor,  was  hidden  under  the 
gay  pink  lining  of  her  sleeve.  "  America  ? 
Is  it  —  is  it  far  to  America  ?  " 


174  The  Little  Gods 

"  Very  far,"  he  answered. 

"  Oh,"  said  Okimi.  The  monkey  tugged  at 
her  sleeve,  and  she  raised  her  head  a  little. 
"  It  does  not  matter,"  she  said  sturdily. 
"  Very  soon  now  I  shall  have  bought  myself 
from  Mama  San.  I  shall  be  free,  and  I  will 
come  to  thee.  I  will  go  anywhere  for  thee, 
so  it  does  not  matter  —  much.  Put  on  thy 
kimono." 

Jiji's  nails  were  cutting  into  his  palms  and 
he  did  not  know  it.  "  Thou  canst  not 
come,  Okimi.  In  America  I  —  I  —  "  there 
are  some  things  it's  hard  to  say,  even  to  a 
broken  plaything.  "  I  am  married  in  Amer 
ica." 

"  Oh,"  said  Okimi.  She  gave  the  monkey 
a  little  push  and  he  went  scuttling  under  the 
bed,  with  shrill  cries  of  alarm.  "  But,  oh,  my 
beloved,  let  me  come  to  thee!  I  will  be  her 
servant.  Let  me  but  come.  She  will  not  care. 
In  Nippon  are  many  who  live  so." 

"  In  America,"  said  Jiji,  "  they  do  not  un 
derstand.  You  cannot  come.,  Okimi.  It 
would  ruin  me." 

Then  Okimi  did  what  all  her  sisters  of  the 
East,  and  some  not  of  the  East,  have  learned 
to  do.  She  bowed  her  head  and  said  very 


What  Okimi  Learned  175 

quietly :  "  Thou  knowest  what  is  best  for  thee. 
It  shall  be  so." 

The  little  monkey,  in  the  silence,  poked  out 
his  head  and  looked  up  at  big  Jiji  with  a  quick, 
silent  grin,  as  a  frightened  monkey  will.  And 
Jiji,  looking  down  at  the  gay  rumpled  figure 
at  his  feet,  said  something  that  sounded  like 
"  Godamit."  Then  he  cleared  his  throat  very 
harshly.  "  Sayonara,  Okimi  ca,"  he  muttered. 
"  Sayonara  de  gans"  and  he  laughed  unstead 
ily  as  he  went  out. 

"  Sayonara,  Jiji  San,"  said  Okimi. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  quite  still.  So  long 
that  the  frightened,  curious  monkey  crept  out 
to  look  about  him.  He  stretched  out  his  claw- 
like  hand  and  plucked  inquiringly  at  the  gay 
bundle  on  the  floor.  Okimi  did  not  stir,  and 
he  drew  back  his  lips  in  a  nervous  grin.  He 
made  a  little  rush  and  grinned  back  inquir 
ingly  at  the  bundle,  another  and  another,  and 
took  heart.  The  flame  attracted  him,  and  he 
scrambled  to  the  dresser  and  stood  face  to  face 
with  Buddh.  He  jumped  back  with  his  grin 
of  frightened  surprise,  but  Buddh  did  not  even 
deign  to  look  at  him.  After  a  moment  he 
sidled  closer,  glancing  with  quick  hard  eyes 
now  at  the  bundle,  now  at  the  god.  At  last 


176  The  Little  Gods 

he  stretched  out  his  tiny  brown  hand  and 
touched  Buddh's  knee.  He  dipped  a  wee  fin 
ger  in  Buddh's  perfumed  oil,  and  tasted  it. 
Then  he  dipped  in  both  hands  and  splattered, 
as  you  have  seen  a  baby  in  its  bath,  and 
grinned  up  maliciously,  ready  to  run.  But 
Buddh  gazed  straight  ahead,  unmoved,  and 
the  monkey,  bold  at  last,  gave  the  orange  a 
most  tremendous  little  shove.  It  tottered,  and 
bumped  down  to  the  floor,  and  went  rolling 
under  the  bed,  and  the  monkey  followed  it 
with  shrill  little  cries  of  triumph. 

The  noise  startled  Okimi  and  she  raised  her 
head.  Then  she  went  blindly  over  to  Buddh, 
ugly,  wrinkled,  good  little  Buddh,  who  sat 
cross-legged  and  protected  her.  She  patted 
the  ridiculous  little  dough-cakes  with  linger 
ing,  caressing  hands,  and  stirred  the  spray  of 
flowers  so  that  they  gave  out  their  sweetest 
odor.  She  bent  very  low  before  the  god. 

"  Mighty  Buddh,"  she  pleaded,  "  he  is  my 
sooeetart.  I  am  just  a  little  girl,  and  I  love 
him.  Please  give  him  back  to  me,  dear 
Buddh." 

She  looked  up  at  him  timidly,  seeking  assur 
ance,  but  he  did  not  smile  back  at  her.  She 
was  going  to  say  more,  trying  to  make  Buddh 


What  Okimi  Learned  177 

understand  how  extremely  important  it  was, 
but  just  then  Mama  San  knocked  at  the  door 
and  told  her  she  must  come  down-stairs. 

So  Okimi  dabbed  on  the  rouge,  and 
smoothed  out  her  gay  silken  kimono,  and  took 
her  samisen,  and  hurried  down  as  fast  as  she 
could  with  her  funny  little  toed-in  steps. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

WHERE   THERE   IS   NO  TURNING 

AGAIN  the  swaying  lamps  burned  dim  above 
us,  and  the  priestess  of  Lai,  all  trembling, 
looked  up  at  me  with  terror-haunted  eyes. 

"  Poor  little  child,"  she  whispered.  "  Poor 
little  life-mocked  child!  That  is  the  bitter 
fate  which  women  fear,  to  be  sucked  dry  of 
their  fresh  sweetness,  of  their  life,  and  then 
be  tossed  aside.  Oh,  I  have  seen  it  many 
times.  We  give  our  all,  and  it  is  wasted  be 
cause  men  —  " 

"  Not  all  men,"  I  said.  "  Not  all  men  are 
like  Okimi's  warrior  sweetheart." 

"  They  are  all  alike,"  cried  the  priestess  of 
Lai  vehemently.  "  In  their  hearts  they  are 
all  alike,  lighter  than  air,  unstabler  than  water, 
more  fickle  than  nectar-seeking  butterflies. 
They  love  our  beauty,  and  when  that  is 
gone  —  Look  you,"  she  cried.  "  This  is  the 
tragedy  of  a  woman,  to  be  beautiful,  to  be 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning    179 

loved,   and  to  grow   old.     Look,"   she   said. 
"  I  will  show  you." 

Once  again  the  light  of  the  silver  lamps  was 
quenched,  and  silent,  side  by  side,  the  priestess 
of  Lai  and  I  looked  far  down  the  weary  path 
which  Eastern  women  travel  not  knowing 
where  an  end  shall  be. 

In  all  the  ride  from  Segovia  along  the 
beach,  Hazlitt  met  only  three  living  things, 
three  women  staring  at  him  out  of  the  folds 
of  dingy  calico  which  shielded  their  faces 
from  the  glare  of  sun  and  sea.  One  was 
young  and  very  graceful;  another  was  not 
so  young,  a  comely,  ox-like  thing,  laden  with 
comfortable  fat.  The  third  was  old  and  bent, 
with  a  hideously  wrinkled,  hopeless  face,  the 
mask  of  that  impatient  death  which  shrivels 
away  the  women  of  the  hot  Eastern  world, 
outside  and  in.  For  a  moment  they  startled 
him.  They  were  like  phantoms  risen  to  con 
front  him  on  the  lifeless  beach,  for  the  young 
est  was  but  a  memory  of  what  the  eldest  had 
been  a  little  time  before,  and  the  eldest  only 
a  prophecy  of  what  the  youngest  soon  would 
be.  As  they  stood  and  watched  him  passing 
by,  shifting  their  worn  feet  uneasily  on  the 


180  The  Little  Gods 

blistering  sand,  Hazlitt  felt  a  mild  stirring  of 
pity  at  the  familiar  sight. 

"Hoy,  friends,"  he  hailed  them.  "Can 
one  of  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  plantation 
of  Don  Raymundo?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  shyly  under  lowered 
lids;  the  grandmother,  squatting  on  her 
haunches,  puffed  at  a  ragged  fragment  of 
cigar  she  carried  and  gazed  out  to  sea;  but 
the  mother  clutched  volubly  at  the  opportunity 
of  speech. 

"Go  on  till  you  come  to  the  mango  which 
blew  down  in  the  typhoon  of  ten  years  ago," 
she  said,  "  and  the  road  is  there.  It  is  called 
the  '  Trail  that  has  no  Turning.'  Don  Ray 
mundo  is  a  Castilian  of  the  noblest,  and  he 
is  the  richest  hadendero  in  the  world.  Each 
year  he  loads  a  hundred  ships  with  sugar. 
The  plantation  is  called  the  '  Hacienda  with 
out  a  Name.'  Don  Raymundo  has  a  daugh 
ter  whose  name  is  Senorita  Dolores.  She  is 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world.  His 
wife  is  Dona  Ceferina."  For  a  moment  a 
look  of  dislike  crossed  the  broad,  good-natured 
face.  "  They  call  her  Dona,  and  she  is  very 
proud,  but  after  all  she  is  just  a  mestizo., 
almost  a  Filipina  like  us.  She  —  " 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     181 

Hazlitt  broke  into  her  chatter  with  his 
thanks,  flipped  a  coin  in  the  air,  and  jogged 
on  till  he  had  left  them  far  behind,  three  mov 
ing  dots  on  the  waste,  plodding  the  way  of 
Malay  womenfolk. 

Hidden  in  the  green-shrouded  wilderness  of 
the  lower  hills,  the  Hacienda  without  a  Name 
lay  under  the  sunset  enchanting  as  a  lost  frag 
ment  of  some  old  world,  where  labor  next  the 
soil  was  the  happiest  thing  in  life.  And  up 
in  the  sala  of  the  great  house  on  the  hill,  the 
mistress  of  the  hacienda  stared  at  Hazlitt  over 
her  cup.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  but 
under  the  Caucasian  mold  of  her  features  an 
other  face  was  beginning  to  show  dimly,  the 
face  of  a  race  whose  very  heat  and  strength 
of  life  fuses  all  lines  down  to  mere  shapeless- 
ness  of  flesh.  A  part  of  Dona  Ceferina  had 
been  overtaken  by  the  unrelenting  advance  of 
middle  age. 

"  You  say  my  husband  is  a  prince,  Sefior?  " 
Dona  Ceferina  echoed  doubtfully  over  her  cup, 
and  her  soft  forehead  wrinkled  in  bewilder 
ment.  This  strange  young  visitor  had  puz 
zling  notions  of  what  constitutes  conversation, 
a  diversion  of  which  Dona  Ceferina  was  ex- 


182  The  Little  Gods 

tremely  fond.  "  Without  doubt,"  she  said, 
"  I  think  that  is  a  mistake." 

Hazlitt  looked  at  her  in  mingled  amusement 
and  vexation.  In  all  his  wonderful  day  of 
discovery,  this  talkative,  commonplace  woman 
had  been  the  sole  jarring  note.  But  Dona 
Ceferina,  oblivious  to  his  emotions,  sat  in  the 
cool  twilight  of  the  big  room  and  poised  her 
cup,  like  some  hybrid  goddess  of  justice  about 
to  render  a  decision. 

"  Beyond  doubt,  it  is  a  mistake,"  said  Dona 
Ceferina.  "  Don  Raymundo's  family  is  one 
of  the  oldest  in  Spain,  but  it  has  never  married 
with  royalty.  There  are  few  princes  in  Spain 
not  of  the  royal  blood;  it  is  not  like  Russia." 
The  word  gave  her  a  clue  to  a  topic  of  real 
interest,  and  she  brightened.  "  When  I  was 
a  girl,  back  at  school,  I  met  a  Russian  prince, 
one  summer  at  Biarritz  —  " 

Over  his  cup,  Don  Raymundo's  tiny  Meph- 
istophelian  moustache  lifted  slightly  in  the 
mocking  smile  which  was  his  extremest  ex 
pression  of  emotion,  and  Hazlitt  rushed  to  the 
righting  of  his  false  lead. 

"  Of  course  I  did  not  mean  that  Don  Ray- 
mundo  was  a  prince  in  name,"  he  explained, 
"  but  in  fact,  you  know." 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     183 

Dona  Ceferina  raised  her  cup  and  sipped 
her  chocolate  resignedly,  but  Hazlitt  did  not 
heed  her. 

"  The  startling,  the  wonderful  thing  to  an 
American  like  me  is  that  he  is  not  only  a 
prince  in  power,  but  a  prince  of  another  age. 
The  people  here  on  the  plantation  are  his,  be 
long  to  him  personally.  Take  that  thing  we 
saw  just  now,  for  example,  all  those  hundreds 
of  people  coming  in  to  the  plantation  kitchen 
for  their  suppers  —  " 

Dona  Ceferina  rose  to  her  opportunity. 
"  If  you  only  knew,"  she  said,  "  how  much 
rice  it  takes  to  feed  five  thousand  people  —  " 

Hazlitt,  brimming  with  the  enthusiasm  the 
day  had  brought  him,  swept  on.  "  Think  of 
having  a  jail  of  your  own,  and  putting  people 
in  it  when  you  like,  being  their  law!  Why, 
I  dare  say  they'd  follow  him  to  war  if  he  told 
them  to,  and  —  and  sack  the  next  plantation. 
It's  —  it's  positively  feudal,  you  know.  That's 
the  only  word;  all  this  doesn't  belong  to  our 
day  at  all.  And  yet  they  say  there's  no  ro 
mance  left  in  trade !  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  Dona  Ceferina 
was  gazing  at  him  with  round  eyes.  If  one 
could  picture  the  eyes  of  a  ruminative  cow, 


184  The  Little  Gods 

watching  with  mild  curiosity  a  serpent  which 
sought  to  charm  her,  one  would  have  seen  the 
eyes  of  Dona  Ceferina  just  then.  Don  Ray- 
mundo  smiled  inscrutably,  and  the  pause  grew 
awkward. 

Suddenly  a  soft  voice  came  to  Hazlitt's  re 
lief.  "  You  remember  '  feudal,'  mama,"  it 
said  reassuringly.  "  Ever  so  long  ago,  when 
they  had  knights  and  squires  and  —  and  gens- 
d'armes,  and  people  lived  in  castles,  and 
they  had  the  Inquisition  in  Spain,  and  the 
friars,  and  —  and  everything.  That  was  '  feu 
dal.'  " 

Dona  Ceferina  sighed  with  relief  and 
sipped :  "  Dolores  has  just  come  back  from 
school,  so  she  remembers  all  those  things," 
she  explained  to  Hazlitt.  "  I  learned  them 
once,  of  course,  but  one  forgets,  out  here. 
And  so  you  think  we're  feudal  ?  I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure.  Of  course  there  aren't  any  knights 
any  more,  or  castles,  but  we  do  have  the  friars. 
Listen,  senor,"  and  she  set  her  cup  on  a  little 
table,  to  give  freedom  to  her  hands,  and 
plunged  into  the  story  of  the  latest  exaction  by 
the  local  representative  of  the  hierarchy  of  the 
Philippines. 

No  one  minded  her  much.     Her  husband 


m 


Dolores  gazed  down  on  her  little  world  as  it  went  to  sleep." 

[Page  185 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     185 

sat  with  half-closed  eyes  and  puffed  at  his 
cigarette,  Dolores  turned  to  her  window  and 
gazed  down  on  her  little  world  as  it  went  to 
sleep,  and  Hazlitt's  eyes  persisted  in  wander 
ing  to  the  girlish  figure,  glowing  in  a  belated, 
ruddy  shaft  of  light.  Decidedly,  the  talkative 
woman  on  the  beach  had  shown  some  discrim 
ination  in  placing  Senorita  Dolores  on  the  pin 
nacle  of  beauty.  Suddenly  Hazlitt  became 
aware  that  Dona  Ceferina's  tale  was  told, 
and  that  her  talk  had  taken  a  more  personal 
turn. 

"  It's  so  good  to  have  one  from  our  own 
world  to  talk  to  again,"  she  said  enthusias 
tically.  "  One  gets  lonely  here,  with  only 
natives  for  neighbors.  I  tremble  to  think 
what  my  existence  would  have  been,  after  I 
came  back  from  school,  if  Don  Raymundo 
had  not  been  here  to  rescue  me."  She  smiled 
radiantly  at  her  black  and  white  spouse,  as  if 
to  include  him  in  the  conversation,  but  he  only 
drew  long  on  his  cigarette  and  puffed  the 
smoke  very  deliberately  toward  the  ceiling. 
Hazlitt's  eyes  wandered  to  the  window  again, 
and  Dona  Ceferina's  followed  them. 

"  Isn't  she  beautiful  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"Yes,"     said     Hazlitt,     half     to     himself. 


186  The  Little  Gods 

"  She's  like  a  Madonna,  a  Madonna  whom 
some  great  man  dreamed  of  painting  and  gave 
up  in  despair." 

"  Exactly,"  Dona  Ceferina  agreed  hastily. 
"  That's  just  it.  She's  beautiful  as  the  Vir 
gin  herself,  and  good !  Poor  child,  after  three 
years  of  Paris  and  Madrid,  to  come  back  to 
this !  "  She  swept  an  over-jeweled  hand  at 
the  great,  simple,  dignified  room.  "  No  won 
der  she's  lonely,  poor  little  dear.  Go  and  talk 
to  her,  Sefior  Hasleet." 

Hazlitt  accepted  his  permission  with  alac 
rity.  As  he  approached,  Dona  Dolores 
glanced  timidly  at  him  across  the  gulf  of 
sex,  which  tradition  and  training  had  fixed 
between  her  and  all  male  things  not  of  her 
blood,  and  retreated  into  herself.  Her  shy 
ness  was  part  of  her  attraction,  Hazlitt 
thought,  and  did  not  find  the  silence  awkward 
as  he  stood  beside  her  and  looked  down  with 
her  on  the  hacienda. 

In  the  shaggy  village  clustered  about  the 
squat  stone  chimney  of  the  mill,  groups  of 
girls  and  young  men  were  laughing  and 
splashing  about  the  wells;  from  the  little 
groves  which  embowered  the  houses,  the  eve 
ning  fires  glowed  red;  the  light  breeze  car- 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     187 

ried,  even  to  that  distance,  a  hint  of  the  pun 
gent  wood-smoke.  As  Hazlitt  watched  the 
peaceful  scene,  all  the  love  of  the  open  which 
had  led  him  wandering  through  life  rolled  over 
him  in  a  wave. 

"  Jove,  it's  a  good  old  world,  after  all,"  he 
said. 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  "  After 
all  ? "  she  echoed  plaintively.  "  Tell  me, 
senor.  The  Sisters  always  said  that  the  world 
was  bad,  and  we  must  be  afraid  of  it.  When 
you  speak  so,  saying  that  it  is  good,  I  wonder 
if  you  also  do  not  think  it  is  bad.  Why  isn't 
it  good,  if  we  are  happy  in  it  ?  " 

Hazlitt  smiled  down  into  her  puzzled  eyes. 
Decidedly  they  were  matter-of-fact,  these 
women  of  the  hacienda.  "  It  is  good,"  he 
assured  her,  with  the  calm  philosophy  of  his 
thirty  years  behind  him.  "  Of  course  it's 
good."  Still  she  looked  up  at  him,  forgetting 
her  shyness,  and  a  gust  of  protectiveness  and 
elder-brotherly  affection  for  this  tender,  bud 
ding  woman-thing  took  hold  of  him.  "  It's 
good,"  he  urged,  "  and  you  will  always  be 
happy  in  it." 

Back  in  the  dimness  Dona  Ceferina  was  sip 
ping  her  third  cup  of  chocolate,  while  Ray- 


188  The  Little  Gods 

mundo  smoked  with  half  shut  eyes  and  smiled 
inscrutably. 

Like  Dorcas  or  Abigail  or  whoever  she  was 
of  old,  Dona  Ceferina  sat  among  her  maidens. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  of  them  on  the  floor, 
sewing  and  spinning  and  chattering  in  sub 
dued  voices,  while  the  mistress  of  the  hacienda 
sat  enthroned  in  the  midst  of  them.  But  un 
like  whoever  she  was  of  old,  Dona  Ceferina 
had  a  card-table  before  her,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table  Hazlitt  sat,  and  the  two 
smiled  companionably  across  at  each  other  as 
they  sorted  fat  bundles  of  cards. 

They  were  playing  panguingui.  One  plays 
panguingui  with  six  packs  of  cards  and  much 
patience.  Dona  Ceferina  and  Hazlitt  had 
played  a  good  deal  of  it  since  they  first  met, 
six  months  before,  and  Hazlitt's  patience  had 
never  wearied.  Neither  had  the  patience  of 
Senorita  Dolores,  which  is  more  to  the  point, 
for  she  had  to  stand  behind  Hazlitt's  chair 
and  help  him  with  the  unfamiliar  cards.  She 
was  standing  there  now. 

"  Hazleet,  it  is  your  lead,"  said  Dona  Cefer 
ina,  gathering  up  her  hand.  It  was  a  sign  of 
the  fellowship  established  between  them  that 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     189 

she  called  him  Hazlitt  in  the  good,  round, 
Spanish  way,  without  any  fuss  over  titles.  It 
was  a  stronger  sign  that  she  sat  with  her  feet 
tucked  up  in  her  chair,  native-fashion.  "  One 
gets  used  to  it,"  she  had  explained,  the  first 
time  she  ventured  it  in  his  presence,  "  and  it's 
much  more  comfortable." 

"  Hazleet,  I  shall  beat  you  again,"  said 
Dona  Ceferina.  "  Lead!  " 

Hazlitt  laid  his  finger  inquiringly  on  a  card, 
and  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  where  a 
pair  of  interested  eyes  signalled  approval. 
Suddenly  he  spied  a  forgotten  card  down  in 
the  corner  of  his  fistful.  Sefiorita  Dolores 
gave  a  small  wail  of  dismay  as  he  played  it, 
and  Dona  Ceferina  smiled  in  pleasant  deri 
sion. 

"  I  mistook  it  for  a  King,"  said  Hazlitt  in 
apology. 

"  It  is  a  mistake,"  said  the  remorseless  Dona 
Ceferina,  "  which  costs  you  a  media  peseta. 
Now  play  again." 

Hazlitt  played  again  and  again,  and  lost 
each  time,  and  enjoyed  Dona  Ceferina's  little 
triumph  almost  as  much  as  she  did.  She 
wasn't  half  bad,  if  she  was  not  exciting,  this 
plump  good-natured  Dona  Ceferina,  with  her 


190  The  Little  Gods 

eternal  cigarette  and  her  cards  or  novel  or 
conversation.  Hazlitt  smiled  whimsically  at 
that  last  thought.  "  What  are  you  laughing 
at,  Hazleet?  "  his  opponent  demanded. 

He  had  been  thinking  of  the  Frenchwoman 
who  was  famed  for  having  such  a  marvellous 
gift  for  conversation,  and  none  at  all  for  dia 
logue,  but  he  couldn't  very  well  tell  Dona 
Ceferina  that  "  At  the  way  I'm  playing,"  he 
replied. 

"  You  couldn't  well  play  worse,"  said  Dona 
Ceferina  good-humoredly,  taking  toll  of  her 
bit  of  silver.  "  Lead  again." 

Hazlitt  could  play  worse,  and  promptly  did 
it.  There  are  infinite  possibilities  of  badness, 
even  in  panguingui.  Not  at  all  a  bad  person 
to  share  a  secret  with,  this  simple,  matter-of- 
fact  Dona  Ceferina.  And  he  believed  they 
were  sharing  one.  In  Dona  Ceferina's  plac 
idly  romantic  bosom,  he  guessed,  had  grown 
a  vision  of  a  young  prince  come  out  of  the 
West  to  rescue  her  imprisoned  princess  from 
this  tropical  Castle  of  Indolence.  A  vision  had 
come  to  him,  too,  a  vision  which  made  him 
lean  back  and  forget  his  cards.  Six  months 
ago  a  beach-comber,  gilded  and  respectable, 
of  course,  but  still  a  beach-comber,  an  adven- 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     191 

turer,  without  a  country;  and  now,  perhaps, 
a  man  whom  many  a  petty  prince  might  envy. 
Fancy  ruling  undisputed  with  Senorita  Dolo 
res  over  the  quiet  domain  of  the  "  Hacienda 
without  a  Name !  "  Jove,  what  a  queen  she'd 
make. 

A  hand  stole  down  over  his  and  pityingly 
pointed  out  the  proper  card,  and  Hazlitt 
sternly  repressed  an  impulse  to  fling  away  the 
cards  and  take  the  hand,  and  keep  it.  The 
time  was  drawing  near  when  he  must  put  his 
fortune  to  the  test. 

The  cards  ran  out,  and  Dona  Ceferina 
glowed  triumphant.  "  Another  game,  Haz- 
leet  ?  "  she  asked. 

Hazlitt  laughingly  turned  his  pocket  out  to 
show  that  the  modest  sum  allotted  for  the 
stakes  of  the  day  was  exhausted,  and  Dona 
Ceferina  swept  up  her  little  heap  of  silver. 
"  You  play  worse  than  ever,  I  think,"  she  said 
frankly. 

"  Still,  I  may  learn  panguingui  before  I 
die,"  said  Hazlitt.  A  sudden  impulse  seized 
him.  He  leaned  forward  and  fixed  the  mis 
tress  of  the  hacienda  with  his  eye.  "  I  rather 
think,  Dona  Ceferina,"  he  said,  with  slow 
emphasis,  "  that  I  shall  have  t©  stay  out  here 


192  The  Little  Gods 

till  I  die.  There  seems  to  be  no  escape.  I 
shall  have  to  stay  and  —  learn  to  play  pan- 
guingui.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

In  the  heavy  eyes  of  Dona  Ceferina  a  small 
glow  kindled,  as  of  the  surviving  remnants  of 
a  very  tiny  fire.  Hazlitt  had  seen  them  light 
that  way  before,  when  Dona  Ceferina  reached 
the  climax  of  a  novel.  The  glow  deepened, 
and  she  looked  at  his  understandingly.  Her 
hand  trembled  a  little  on  the  table.  "  Why 
not,  Hazleet  ?  "  she  said.  "  It  —  it  would  be 
very  pleasant  for  all  of  us.  I  —  "  She  rose 
hastily.  "  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  for  a 
minute.  I  hope  you  and  Dolores  can  amuse 
yourselves  till  luncheon,"  she  said  with  elab 
orate  innocence,  and  went  away. 

Hazlitt  followed  poor  unsuspecting  Dolores, 
thus  left  as  a  ewe  lamb  to  the  wolf,  over  to 
the  window,  and  stood  looking  down  with  her, 
while  the  half-dozen  maidens  let  needle  and 
spindle  fall,  and  exchanged  knowing  glances. 

The  rains  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  trop 
ical  world  was  thrilling  with  the  swift  rush  of 
its  springtime.  The  black  fields  were  mistily 
green  with  the  new-set  spikes  of  cane,  the  sky 
was  fleecy  with  white  banks  of  cloud,  the  very 
air  was  sweet  and  full  of  life.  Hazlitt  drew 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     193 

a  deep  breath  of  it.  "  God !  "  he  said,  "  what 
a  good  old  place  this  old  world  is  to  live 
in." 

Dolores  glanced  up  at  him.  No  one  would 
have  called  her  a  Madonna  now.  The  spring 
tide  had  entered  into  her,  and  she  was  vibrant 
with  a  thrill  of  living  of  which  no  monkish 
painter  ever  dreamed.  "  Why  do  you  talk 
like  that  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Of  course  it's 
a  good  world." 

Hazlitt  gazed  down  into  the  upturned  eyes. 
"  And  you  are  happy  in  it,  Dolores  ? "  he 
asked. 

At  his  tone  Dolores  flushed  rosy  and  turned 
away,  and  her  hand  gripped  the  edge  of  the 
broad  sill  with  little,  helpless,  useless  fingers. 
Hazlitt  laid  his  hand  over  it  protectingly,  and 
it  did  not  draw  away.  "  You  are  happy,  Do 
lores?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Dolores  faintly.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  be,  when  everything  is  —  so  beau 
tiful  and  —  and  good  ?  " 

"  Happy  Dolores,"  said  Hazlitt.  And  then 
Don  Raymundo  rode  round  the  turn  in  the 
shrubbery  below  and  swung  from  the  saddle. 
Dolores  shrank  back,  but  Don  Raymundo  only 
smiled  up  inscrutably.  If  he  had  seen  the  little 


194  The  Little  Gods 

comedy,  he  gave  no  sign.     "  I'll  join  you  in 
a  minute,"  he  called  to  them. 

A  flash  of  anger  swept  over  Hazlitt  at  this 
man  whose  mere  approach  took  all  the  witch 
ery  from  life.  He  pressed  Dolores'  hand  be 
fore  he  released  it.  "  She  shall  be  happy," 
he  muttered  defiantly,  to  Don  Raymundo  and 
the  world.  "  She  shall  be  happy  always." 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  great  deal  of  unneces 
sary  time  in  the  world,"  Don  Raymundo  ob 
served  with  his  perverse  triviality.  He  and 
Hazlitt  had  run  across  each  other  in  the  sala 
after  their  siesta,  and  now  they  were  sitting 
with  their  long  chairs  drawn  up  before  a  win 
dow,  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  day. 

"  Perhaps  there  is,"  Hazlitt  agreed,  slowly 
gathering  resolution  for  his  plunge.  "  And 
yet,  with  agreeable  companionship,  and  per 
haps  a  wife  —  Don  Raymundo,  we  Americans 
are  blunt.  I  want  to  marry  Dona  Dolores." 

Don  Raymundo  smoked  placidly  for  a  mo 
ment.  "  I  have  been  expecting  this,"  he  said 
at  last.  "  I  have  —  shall  /  be  blunt?  —  been 
fearing  this." 

Hazlitt  flushed.  "  I  know  it  seems  pre 
sumptuous,"  he  said.  "  People  will  call  me 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     195 

a  climber.  And  yet —  We  have  no  aristoc 
racy  in  my  country,  no  recognized  aristocracy, 
as  perhaps  you  know.  But  of  such  families 
as  we  have,  mine  is  not  the  worst.  For  five 
generations  —  " 

"  I  care  little  about  families,"  said  Don 
Raymundo  coolly. 

The  tone  was  courteous,  but  the  words 
stung  Hazlitt.  "  I  am  not  a  rich  man,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  have  enough.  I  was  afraid  at 
first  that  it  was  the  hacienda  I  cared  for,  not 
the  wealth  of  it,  but  the  power  and  romance  of 
the  life  here.  That  was  what  took  me  at  first, 
but  now  it's  Dona  Dolores  herself.  I  know 
it.  I  had  hoped  —  "  he  hesitated.  After  six 
months  of  almost  daily  intercourse  it  was  as 
impossible  to  break  through  Don  Raymundo's 
smiling  reserve  as  it  had  been  at  first.  "  I 
had  hoped  that  you  might  find  the  company 
of  another  white  man  not  disagreeable,  that 
we  might  perhaps  even  become  friends,  but  — 
all  that  doesn't  matter,  but  simply  this :  it  isn't 
the  hacienda  I  want." 

Don  Raymundo  spread  out  his  hands  with 
a  gesture  of  utter  weariness.  "  I  care  so  little 
for  the  hacienda  and  who  has  it  and  what  be 
comes  of  it,"  he  said,  "  that  if  the  burden  of 


196  The  Little  Gods 

it  could  be  lifted  from  me  I  should  be  almost 
happy,  I  think."  And  while  scorn  for  the 
eternal  posing1  of  the  man  was  setting  Haz- 
litt's  lips,  he  went  on :  "  My  friend,  and  I  call 
you  friend  because  I  feel  a  friendliness  for 
you,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story  I  never 
thought  to  tell  to  any  one."  Don  Raymundo's 
momentary  energy  dropped  from  him.  "  If 
you  care  to  listen,"  he  amended,  in  his  most 
uninterested  manner. 

"  Go  on,  please,"  said  Hazlitt  impatiently. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  a  young  man  in  Spain," 
said  Don  Raymundo,  "  a  boy  who  had  a 
mama  and  a  sister  and  a  name,  all  of  them 
associated  with  a  rambling  stone  house  that 
perched  on  a  sunburnt  hill.  He  also  had  a 
somewhat  lively  and  energetic  brain,  and  a 
very  moderate  education.  All  he  lacked  was 
an  income.  I  hope  I  do  not  bore  you  more 
than  usual  ?  " 

Hazlitt  moved  restlessly,  and  Don  Ray 
mundo  continued :  "  Observe  the  sequence. 
The  wealth  of  dreams  is  traditionally  Orien 
tal,  and  the  Philippines  lie  in  the  Orient.  So 
the  boy,  lying  there  beneath  the  broken  roof 
of  the  gaunt  stone  house,  and  being  sadly  in 
need  of  an  income,  dreams  of  a  journey  over 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     197 

sunny  seas  to  a  region  where  Spaniards  dwell 
in  palaces  and  gain  untold  gold,  living  like 
little  gods  together  on  broad  acres  where  cane 
rustles  and  coffee-blossoms  gleam  and  the 
hemp  sends  up  its  never-dying  stalk.  De- 
monio ! "  said  Don  Raymundo,  with  a  mock 
ing  lightness  bitter  as  it  well  could  be,  "  I  seem 
to  be  falling  into  the  mood  of  that  boy  who 
dreamed." 

Don  Raymundo's  silence  seemed  expectant, 
somehow,  and  Hazlitt  asked:  "He  came?" 

"  He  came,"  said  Don  Raymundo,  "  and 
he  awoke.  They  say  that  he  found  the  rus 
tling  cane  and  the  gleaming  blossoms  a  bit 
monotonous,  even  while  they  turned  to  gold 
beneath  his  touch.  His  environment,  I  take 
it,  must  have  been  rather  like  —  "  He  mo 
tioned  toward  the  window  and  the  world  that 
lay  outside  it,  the  fields  stretching  away  in 
the  burning  light  to  the  dim  edge  of  the  for 
est,  the  endless  sweep  of  the  jungle,  the  dis 
tant  glow  of  the  sleeping  sea,  all  the  untam 
able  world  that  pressed  around  the  "  Hacienda 
without  a  Name." 

"  Like  this,"  Hazlitt  assented  reluctantly. 

"  Like  this,"  Don  Raymundo  agreed. 
"  People  say  he  said  at  last  that  proper  com- 


198  The  Little  Gods 

panionship,  and  perhaps  a  wife  —  Dios  mio, 
I  grow  stupid.  His  nearest  neighbor,  who 
was  half  a  native,  was  —  blessed,  I  believe  the 
proper  word  is  —  blessed  with  a  daughter.  A 
most  charming  young  woman  in  those  days, 
they  tell  me,  very  gay,  very  gentle,  very  af 
fectionate,  most  accomplished;  she  had  spent 
many  years  on  the  Continent,  I  believe.  In 
short,  she  was  an  unusually  beautiful  and  at 
tractive  young  person,  very  like  —  " 

"  Like  —  "  Hazlitt  began  unwillingly,  and 
stopped. 

"  Like  Dolores,"  Don  Raymundo  assented 
for  him.  "  And  this  interesting  young  woman 
naturally  felt  ill  at  ease  among  her  homestay- 
ing  half-countrymen,  and  naturally  had  much 
in  common  —  but  all  that  is  easily  understood. 
They  were  married.  And  that,"  Don  Ray 
mundo  said  with  languid  brutality,  "  seems  to 
have  been  the  ending  of  the  young  man's  sec 
ond  dream.  Since  then  he  has  lived  with  open 
eyes." 

Hazlitt  felt  a  twinge  of  shame  come  over 
him  at  listening.  After  all,  the  law  which 
establishes  a  neutral  strip  of  silence  between 
men  is  based  on  something  deeper  than  mere 
convention. 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning     199 

"  Don't  you  think,"  Hazlitt  asked  at  last  — 
he  had  to  say  something  —  "  that  this  young 
man  took  himself  too  seriously,  too  tragically? 
If  he  had  given  more  to  life,  had  gone  about 
among  people  —  " 

"  I  understand,"  Don  Raymundo  inter 
rupted  him,  "  that  he  declined  to  go  out 
among  his  countrymen,  where  his  wife  was 
received  only  as  a  favor  to  himself  and  his 
name.  He  was  a  somewhat  Quixotic  young 
man,  you  see.  And  his  Filipino  friends, 
though  worthy  people  doubtless,  were  some 
what  unattractive  and  dull  to  both  the  young 
man  and  his  wife.  So  in  the  end  he  was  re 
stricted  to  the  joys  of  home.  And  his  wife 
grew  old  more  rapidly  than  he.  There  seemed 
to  be  something  in  her  blood  that  made  her 
grow  old  quickly." 

For  a  moment  Hazlitt  felt  a  gleam  of  pity 
for  the  lonely  man  beside  him.  Then  his  back 
stiffened. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  Hazlitt,  and  for  his 
life  could  not  keep  the  vibration  of  scorn  from 
his  voice,  "that  I  love  Dona  Dolores  merely 
because  she  is  young  and  beautiful.  What  I 
want  is  to  make  her  happy.  We  can  grow  old 
together." 


200  The  Little  Gods 

Don  Raymundo  smiled,  and  for  once  his 
smile  was  patient  instead  of  mocking.  "  You 
are  like  that  young  man  of  mine  now,"  he 
said  gently.  "  You  remind  me  very  much  of 
him.  When  you  are  older,  you  will  judge 
less  harshly.  And  aren't  you  overlooking 
something?  Is  it  my  happiness  that  counts, 
or  yours,  or  even  Dolores',  though  it's  hard 
that  she  should  suffer  for  the  mistake  her 
father  made."  He  drew  himself  up  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  Hazlitt  with  a  new  light 
in  his  eyes. 

"Have  you  any  right  to  marry  her?"  he 
asked  almost  sternly.  "  What  of  your  chil 
dren?  And  their  children?  A  hundred  years 
from  now,  will  they  be  —  white?  Or  must 
they  go  on  forever  belonging  nowhere,  de 
spised  by  half  the  brothers  of  their  blood,  and 
themselves  despising  the  other  half?  Where 
will  it  end  ?  " 

Enlightenment  burst  on  Hazlitt  in  a  flash. 
This  was  no  lover's  obstacle,  to  be  surmounted 
by  theatric  leaps  and  bounds.  He  had  come 
face  to  face  with  one  of  the  truths  of  life, 
Nature's  unescapable  law  of  blood.  He  saw 
them  coming,  the  slow  generations,  men  of 
no  race  and  country.  "  My  God !  "  he  said, 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning    201 

and  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair  till  the  cane 
splintered. 

A  door  opened  at  the  other  end  of  the  big 
room.  "  Our  companions  are  coming,"  said 
Don  Raymundo  quietly,  and  rose  with  punc 
tilious  courtesy. 

After  the  greetings  Dona  Ceferina  went 
directly  to  the  gleaming  tray  which  bore  the 
chocolate  and  biscuits  which  buoy  one  from 
the  dead  languor  of  the  siesta  to  the  full  tide 
of  evening  life.  Hazlitt  sank  back  in  his  chair 
again.  Suddenly  a  soft  voice  asked  over  his 
shoulder :  "  You  haven't  forgotten  to  save 
this  day  week  for  our  baile,  have  you?  You 
must  come,  you  know,  because  then,"  Do 
lores  hesitated  at  her  boldness  but  rattled  on, 
"  because  then  I  sha'n't  have  to  dance  so  often 
with  these  stupid  native  boys." 

Hazlitt  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair  again. 
The  moment  for  decision  had  come.  All  those 
unborn  generations  were  waiting  for  his  an 
swer.  Dolores  was  waiting  too,  poor,  help 
less,  innocent  Dolores.  He  looked  to  Don 
Raymundo  for  relief,  but  Don  Raymundo,  at 
a  window,  had  turned  his  back  and  was  puff 
ing  at  his  eternal  cigarette.  The  pause  grew 
long.  Then  slowly  Hazlitt  straightened  in  his 


202  The  Little  Gods 

chair,  and  as  he  looked  up  at  the  wondering 
face  behind  him,  the  law  and  the  prophets 
were  swept  away  in  a  gush  of  pitying  affec 
tion.  Pitying,  and  then?  She  seemed  so 
rarely,  wonderfully  beautiful  to  him,  rare  and 
precious  as  some  golden  flower  from  supernal 
gardens.  He  could  not  let  her  go,  could  not 
give  up  her  surpassing  loveliness.  "  Yes,"  he 
said  very  firmly,  "  yes,  I  will  come." 

"  Lalala !  "  Dona  Ceferina  laughed  from  her 
place  behind  the  cups.  "  He  speaks  as  seri 
ously  as  if  he  made  a  vow  to  Our  Lady.  It's 
only  a  ball,  you  know,  Hazleet.  Give  the  men 
their  chocolate,  Dolorcita."  She  raised  her 
cup  and  sipped  happily.  "  After  all,"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  of  deep  content,  "  there  are 
few  things  in  life  more  delightful  than  one's 
chocolate  and  cigarette." 

Don  Raymundo  was  gazing  from  his  win 
dow  off  into  the  distance,  where  the  gathering 
shadows  were  blending  forest  and  cane-field. 

"  Chocolate  is  very  good,"  he  said  thought 
fully. 

Three  women  tramped  in  the  glare  of  end 
less  Segovia  beach.  One  was  young  and 
graceful ;  another  was  a  comely,  ox-like  thing 


Where  There  Is  No  Turning    203 

of  middle  age;  the  third  was  at  the  end  of 
life.  They  halted  for  a  moment  to  rest,  and 
the  grandmother  squatted  on  her  haunches 
and  gazed,  unseeing,  out  over  the  water. 

"  There  will  be  a  wedding  at  the  hacienda 
next  month,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  "  the  young  Amer 
ican  will  marry  Sefiorita  Dolores.  They  say 
he  is  very  rich,  richer  than  Don  Raymundo." 

"  He  is  very  big  and  handsome,"  said  the 
girl  wistfully.  "  And  Dona  Dolores  —  she  is 
very  beautiful  and  kind." 

A  flash  of  jealousy  crossed  the  mother's 
broad,  good-natured  face.  "  Yes,"  she  said, 
"  she  is  beautiful.  But  after  all  she  is  only 
a  mestizo,,  almost  a  Filipina  like  the  rest  of 
us.  And  she  will  grow  old." 

Then,  having  halted  a  moment,  they 
tramped  on  along  their  path  like  phantoms 
risen  on  the  lifeless  beach,  for  the  youngest 
was  but  a  memory  of  what  the  eldest  had  been 
a  little  time  before,  and  the  eldest  was  only 
a  prophecy  of  what  the  youngest  soon  would 
be. 


CHAPTER   IX 

AN   OPTIMIST 

I  CANNOT  hope  to  describe  to  you  my  dis 
may  at  finding  myself  back  in  that  ancient 
temple  of  Tzin  Piaou,  nor  the  dislike  with 
which  I  looked  into  the  eyes  of  that  old 
heathen  priest,  those  slant  eyes  where  cynical 
amusement,  like  a  little,  undying  flame,  danced 
and  flickered. 

"  And  so,"  said  the  bland  old  gentleman, 
raising  himself  languidly  on  his  hollowed  slab 
of  stone,  "  and  so  you  find  the  company  of 
the  ladies  more  agreeable  than  mine?  I  do 
not  wonder.  How  did  you  leave  them  all  in 
the  temple  of  Lai  ?  "  It  would  be  impossible 
to  indicate  the  sly  mockery  which  rustled  in 
his  tone. 

"  So  that  was  your  doing,  too  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  moved  a  deprecatory  hand,  smiling 
blandly  through  me  into  space.  "  I  may  have 
been  used  as  an  unworthy  instrument,"  he 
murmured,  "  but  for  most  of  your  experience, 


An  Optimist  205 

I  fancy,  you're  indebted  to  the  Little  Gods 
themselves.  Did  you  find  amusement,  or  in 
struction,  was  it  ?  —  forgive  me,  I  forget  — 
in  the  Games  they  showed  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  tired  of  your  Little  Gods,  if  they 
exist,"  I  said  bluntly,  for  he  made  me  angry. 
"  As  I  told  you  once,  and  as  I  would  tell  them 
to  their  faces,  I  think  them  cowards.  I  ask 
you  again,  do  they  never  give  their  victims  a 
fair  chance  ?  Is  there  never  a  single  plaything 
of  theirs  which,  fighting  bravely  and  in  good 
faith,  is  permitted  to  win?  Are  the  dice  al 
ways  cogged  ?  " 

"  You  like  to  see  them  win  ? "  my  old 
heathen  priest  asked  in  bland  surprise.  "  What 
a  very  commonplace  taste;  for  people  are 
always  winning  what  they  strive  for,  thou 
sands  of  them  every  day.  It's  only  the  ex 
ceptions,  the  surprises,  which  are  interesting. 
I  thought  you  asked  to  see  Life  through  my 
eyes.  But  since  your  taste  runs  that  way  —  " 
he  yawned  ever  so  slightly  behind  his  hand  — 
"  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you  ?  "  he  apolo 
gized,  "  but  this  is  an  hour  which  I  invariably 
devote  to  a  nap."  He  made  a  little  careless, 
dismissing  gesture.  "  Wander  where  you 
choose,"  said  he,  "  and  watch  men  fight,  since 


206  The  Little  Gods 

that's  your  taste,  and  win  —  what  they  may 
win." 

It  was  my  dismissal,  and  there  I  saw  him 
last,  as  I  had  seen  him  first,  lying  motionless 
on  his  hollowed  slab,  smiling  blandly,  cyn 
ically,  into  Emptiness,  with  light  yet  bitter 
mockery  in  his  smile. 

Then,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me,  I  wandered 
far  and  long,  and  saw  many  men  striving 
mightily  for  many  things,  and  most  of  them 
were  winners,  and  most  of  them,  winning, 
found  themselves  no  nearer  their  hearts'  de 
sires.  But  among  them  I  marked  three,  and 
have  remembered  them,  whose  striving  seemed 
to  me  not  wholly  without  interest.  The  first 
of  them  was  a  very  common-seeming  man  in 
deed,  and  the  only  thing  about  him  which 
made  him  worthy  of  remark  was,  that  he  was 
an  optimist. 

Samar  is  a  sorry  strip  of  island  which  rises 
in  gray-green,  commonplace,  and  yet  sinister 
ugliness  from  a  green  and  treacherous  sea. 
Its  coasts  are  a  desolation  of  over-thrifty  veg 
etation.  Its  interior,  so  far  as  it  has  been 
explored,  is  a  wilderness  of  forest  and  pre 
cipitous  mountains.  And  the  people  who  in- 


An  Optimist  207 

habit  it  are  worthy  of  the  place,  outcasts  and 
refugees  from  other  islands,  outlawed  men  for 
whom  no  other  spot  of  earth  holds  a  future. 

Toward  the  end  of  1901,  soldiers  and  ma 
rines  and  sailors,  the  4ist  Infantry,  U.  S.  A., 
among  them,  were  rushed  to  Samar  to  punish 
the  murderers  of  Balangiga  and  cleanse  the 
plague-spot  of  the  Philippines  of  its  spawn. 
The  work  proved  to  be  difficult  and  slow.  The 
blazing  summer  had  darkened  into  such  winter 
as  the  Eastern  tropics  know,  a  season  of  low 
ering  skies  and  deluges  of  rain,  and  dank  cold 
and  boisterous  winds,  and  still  the  quarry 
flitted  elusively  from  stronghold  to  stronghold 
of  the  untracked  mountains,  emerging  at  rare 
intervals  to  strike  with  murderous  suddenness 
at  unexpected  places  and  then  disappear,  as 
hard  to  bring  to  bay  as  any  other  beast  of 
prey  which  makes  cunning  atone  for  its  lack 
of  strength  and  courage. 

At  Sabey,  a  hopeless  town  half-way  up  the 
east  coast  of  the  island,  Company  B  of  the  4ist 
was  stationed,  as  hard-fisted,  hard-mouthed, 
hard-living,  hard-fighting  a  set  of  terriers  as 
ever  was  enlisted.  Its  Captain,  one  Burrell, 
delighted  in  catching  his  pets  wild  and  taming 
them  to  his  peculiar  taste.  B's  ranks,  for  the 


208  The  Little  Gods 

most  part,  were  filled  by  transfer  from  other 
organizations  whose  officers  were  glad  to  turn 
over  their  black  sheep.  Burrell,  by  some 
method  of  his  own,  speedily  made  soldiers, 
his  sort  of  soldiers,  of  them,  and  they  swore 
by  him. 

It  was  unusual  for  B  to  sit  in  garrison  when 
the  4 1st  was  afield,  for  the  company  had  a 
reputation  consonant  with  its  character,  and 
was  welcome  at  the  front  whenever  there  was 
action.  But  all  that  autumn  it  was  held  in 
quarters,  while  the  rain  drummed  on  the  iron 
roof  and  reports  came  in  of  little  battles  north 
and  south  and  west. 

"  Ev'rybody  had  a  man's  size  grouch  on, 
fr'm  th'  Old  Man  down,"  they  reported  after 
ward.  "  Ev'rybody  but  just  John  Henry  Sul 
livan,  him  we  called  Peaceful  Henry.  You 
couldn't  hammer  a  grouch  onto  Peaceful  with 
an  axe." 

Sullivan  was  the  humorist  of  the  company, 
a  long,  lank,  freckled  figure-of-fun  who  was 
tolerated,  ordinarily,  though  unmercifully 
mocked,  for  a  certain  likable  simplicity  of 
mind  and  a  childish  friendliness  for  every 
thing.  But  that  fall  his  antics  palled  on  B. 
"  They  was  times  when  we'd  a  been  glad  to 


An  Optimist  209 

kill  him/'  as  they  said,  "  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
havin'  to  look  forrard  to  a  long  enlistment 
with  him  down  below." 

But  at  the  very  end  of  the  year  a  hope  of 
cornering  the  enemy  appeared,  and  the  spirits 
of  B  Company  rose  accordingly.  Midway  of 
its  length,  Samar  narrows  till  a  scant  thirty- 
five  miles  separates  the  long  rollers  of  the 
Pacific  shore  from  the  quieter  waters  of  the 
Visayan  Sea.  So,  at  least,  the  triangulation 
of  the  Coast  Survey  bore  witness,  then.  Un 
til  that  winter  there  was  no  record  of  men  who 
had  crossed  the  savage  island.  But  a  local 
tradition  asserted  that  an  old  and  long-aban 
doned  trail  led  from  Sabey  on  the  east  coast, 
that  very  Sabey  where  B  was  stationed,  to 
Nalang  on  the  west. 

If  that  ancient  trail  could  be  opened  once 
more,  Samar  would  be  cut  in  two,  the  activity 
of  the  skulking  outlaws  would  be  impeded, 
and  a  scheme  of  effective  reconcentration 
would  be  possible  at  last.  The  men  of  B 
Company  felt  that  their  old  luck  was  with 
them  when  the  duty  of  making  the  first  recon 
naissance  of  the  old  trail  fell  to  them. 

They  were  ready  to  move  at  once,  and  soon 
after  reveille,  on  the  morning  of  December 


210  The  Little  Gods 

25th,  Captain  Burrell,  Lieutenant  Roberts,  and 
twenty  men,  all  dressed  in  the  blue  and  khaki 
of  field  service,  and  bearing  haversacks  bulg 
ing  with  four  days'  rations,  assembled  on  the 
beach  at  Sabey  to  make  an  attempt  at  crossing 
Samar. 

It  was  an  inauspiciously  gray  and  threaten 
ing  morning.  Behind  the  explorers,  breakers 
crashed  thunderously  on  the  sand,  and  a  roar 
ing  northeast  monsoon  whipped  spume  about 
in  frothy  sheets.  Before  them,  the  wilderness 
lay  grim  and  forbidding,  in  the  cold  light. 
But  they  accepted  the  rawness  and  the  gloom 
with  the  indifference  of  long  acquaintance. 
Four  marches  straight  westward,  of  ten  miles 
each  at  most,  child's  play  to  men  like  them, 
should  bring  them  to  Nalang.  There  was  no 
breath  of  adventure  in  the  air. 

Yet  of  the  party  which  faced  the  hills  that 
morning,  seven  lie  within  the  shadow  still, 
and  only  one  came  out  again  unaided,  seven 
teen  days  later,  to  report  that  somewhere  be 
hind  him  fourteen  men  of  B,  including  the  Old 
Man  who  made  it  B,  lay  starving  and  delirious 
with  fever. 

On  the  morning  of  the  start,  they  had  of 
course  no  premonition  of  all  this.  Burrell  and 


An  Optimist  211 

Roberts  waved  careless  farewells  to  the  one 
lady  of  Sabey,  the  post  surgeon's  young  wife, 
the  men  grumbled  aimlessly  at  the  prospect  of 
a  wet  march  and  a  wet  camp,  and  Sullivan, 
settling  his  haversack  strap  more  comfortably, 
grinned  at  the  disappointed  ones  in  front  of 
quarters  who  could  not  go.  "  Reckon  we'll 
locate  that  overland  route  for  the  Sumner  this 
time,  sure,"  he  remarked,  with  a  fatuous  at 
tempt  at  humor. 

"  Fall  in,"  the  Captain  ordered,  and  the 
little  column  set  its  front  westward  and  swung 
off  along  the  drenched  banks  of  Sabey  River. 

Four  days  later,  as  an  early  nightfall  was 
closing  down,  eighteen  of  the  party  struggled 
to  the  summit  of  a  half-wooded  ridge  in  the 
interior  of  the  island,  and  the  worn-out  men 
straightened  up  with  momentary  eagerness  to 
peer  into  the  cloud-hung  west.  Only  the 
blankness  of  further  up-tumbled  ridges  and 
black  waves  of  forest  veiled  in  sheets  of  rain 
lay  before  them,  and  to  north,  south,  and  east 
as  well.  Nowhere  on  the  circle  of  the  horizon 
was  a  leaden  gleam  of  the  guiding  sea. 

The  men  seemed  dazed.  They  had  made 
their  four  marches,  of  far  more  than  ten  miles 


212  The  Little  Gods 

each,  it  seemed,  at  such  cost  of  strength  and 
courage  as  no  one  who  has  not  travelled  in 
that  land  can  comprehend.  They  had  made 
the  last  march  on  all  but  a  remnant  of  their 
food,  and  the  baffling  trail  they  followed  had 
led  them  nowhere.  An  hour  before  it  had 
vanished  in  a  thicket.  Since  then  they  had 
cut  a  trail  with  their  bayonets,  pushing  for 
this  ridge  in  the  hope  that  from  its  summit 
they  might  see  the  coast  at  last.  Instead,  they 
found  that  they  were  lost  in  the  Samar  hills. 
Faint  from  hunger  and  exertion,  chilled  to  the 
bone  from  tramping  in  clammy  clothing  and 
sleeping  in  drenched  blankets,  with  shoes  that 
burst  from  their  swollen  feet  like  pulp  and 
hung  in  shreds,  already  halting  of  speech  and 
step  with  the  burning  weakness  of  fever,  half 
a  dozen  of  them,  they  stood  there  in  the  beat 
ing  downpour,  stunned,  and  daunted. 

All  this  had  come  to  them  in  four  days,  — 
that  was  the  paralyzing  fact.  It  appalled  them 
that  all  their  pride  of  strength  should  have 
vanished  in  that  little  space,  when  other  days 
were  coming,  how  many  no  one  knew,  of 
uglier  promise.  Foiled,  while  they  still  had 
food  and  strength,  by  the  task  they  had  set 
themselves,  each  day  of  increased  weakness 


An  Optimist  213 

and  privation  now  would  call  them  to  in 
creased  exertion  till  the  sea  was  reached  — 
the  sea  which  might,  and  might  not,  lie  be 
yond  the  furthest  of  those  mountains  to  the 
west,  if  it  was  west.  Dumbly  they  stared  at 
them,  avoiding  each  other's  eyes. 

Captain  Burrell,  still  weakened  by  the 
wound  he  got  in  front  of  Tientsin,  was  one 
of  the  hardest-hit  of  the  fever-victims,  and 
his  teeth  chattered  when  he  talked,  but  he 
retained  a  humor  dryer  than  the  weather. 
"  I  reckon  we'll  camp  right  here,"  he  said. 
"  H'm.  We  can't  quite  fetch  the  coast  to 
night,  and  this  ridge  is  well-drained,  anyway. 
H'm." 

The  least  weary  of  the  men  smiled  forlornly 
in  response  to  the  spirit  that  lived  in  their  Old 
Man,  and  Sullivan  laughed  outright.  "  I've 
been  lookin'  for  a  well-dreened  place  like  this 
to  start  my  cactus-farm  in,  sir,"  he  remarked. 
Already  the  formalities  of  rank  had  vanished, 
and  discipline  meant  obedience  for  the  com 
mon  good,  not  ceremony. 

"  Might  do  it,  by  irrigating,"  said  the  Cap 
tain.  "  H'm."  He  cast  a  sharp  glance  at  his 
one  unapprehensive  subordinate.  "  The  rest 
of  you  camp  right  here,"  he  ordered.  "  Sul- 


214  The  Little  Gods 

livan  and  I  are  going  back  along  to  stir  up 
those  loafers  who  fell  out." 

"  See  here,  sir,"  Lieutenant  Roberts  cried, 
in  half-hearted  protest,  for  every  inch  of  his 
six  feet  of  young  body  was  aching  dully, 
"  that  leg  of  yours  —  " 

"  Is  a  corker,"  said  the  Captain  shortly. 
"  H'm.  Come  along,  Sullivan." 

An  hour  later  the  two,  staggering  with 
sleep,  herded  the  last  of  the  sodden,  half- 
delirious  stragglers  up  to  the  fire  which  splut 
tered  in  the  wet  and  gloom,  and  the  sick  men 
sprawled  obediently  among  their  unconscious 
fellows.  For  an  instant  the  officer  stared 
down  at  them.  "  Hopeful  lot,  ain't  they  ?  " 
he  muttered.  "  H'm." 

"  It  sure  looks  some  like  a  graveyard,  Cap 
tain,"  said  Sullivan  cheerfully.  The  Captain 
glanced  at  him  again. 

"  Don't  you  ever  get  —  blue,  Sullivan?  "  he 
asked  curiously. 

Sullivan  seemed  doubtful.  "I  —  I  do' 
know's  I  ever  thought  much  about  it,  sir," 
he  said. 

"  I  reckoned  not,"  said  the  Captain.  "  H'm. 
Well,  don't.  Go  to  sleep." 

"  I  was  thinkin'  I'd  keep  th'  fire  goin'  a 


An  Optimist  215 

while,  it  looked  so  kind  of  homelike,"  Sulli 
van  objected.  "  I  ain't  much  sleepy.  You 
turn  in,  sir." 

"  I'm  not  sleepy,  either,"  said  the  other 
gruffly.  "  H'm.  Roll  in  now.  Pronto." 
Obediently  Sullivan  sank  down  where  he 
stood,  and  was  asleep. 

Burrell  sat  long,  brooding  over  the  fire, 
listening  to  the  deep  breaths  and  smothered 
groanings  of  his  men.  One  of  them  babbled 
in  delirium,  piteously,  for  a  moment,  and  the 
Captain  went  and  soothed  him,  awkwardly. 
Then  he  stood  above  him,  gazing  off  into  the 
gulf  of  blackness  to  the  west.  He  glanced 
down  at  the  muttering  soldier,  and  away  again 
into  the  night.  "  God  damn  you"  he  said  to 
the  Island  of  Samar  gravely,  courteously,  as 
one  might  deliver  a  challenge  to  mortal  com 
bat. 

Next  morning  they  breakfasted  on  what 
was  left  of  their  food,  consuming  all  but  a 
precious  emergency  ration  of  two  tins  of 
bacon,  a  pound  and  a  half  in  all.  Then  they 
pushed  on  in  what  was  meant  to  be  a  last  des 
perate  dash  for  the  coast,  going  down  into  a 
long  wide  valley  smothered  in  primeval  forest. 


216  The  Little  Gods 

Every  trail  had  vanished,  each  step  of  advance 
had  to  be  slashed  from  a  jungle  of  underbrush 
and  creepers,  and  for  all  their  suffering  they 
gained  a  scant  five  miles.  They  halted  at 
nightfall  in  a  little  opening,  where  they  shed 
their  equipments  as  they  stood,  and  sprawled 
among  them.  Sullivan  and  the  Captain,  go 
ing  back  for  the  many  stragglers,  failed  to  dis 
cover  two  of  them. 

They  camped  that  night  without  food  or 
fire,  in  a  rain  that  came  down  harder  than 
ever,  if  such  a  thing  could  be.  Next  day, 
without  breakfast,  they  resumed  their  dogged 
advance,  halting  often  to  rest  and  search  for 
food.  But  in  that  dead  season  the  forest 
yielded  nothing  more  edible  than  leaves  and 
bark,  and  a  few  woody  seed  pods  like  rose- 
haws  in  size  and  shape. 

"  Hell-apples,"  Sullivan  named  those,  after 
he  had  had  opportunity  to  observe  their  ef 
fects.  "  They  look  all  right,  and  they  taste 
all  right,"  he  explained,  "  but  they  sure  do 
raise  hell  with  your  insides." 

The  men  munched  them  greedily,  despite 
their  uncomforting  properties.  A  time  was 
coming  when  a  rotting  log  that  harbored  store 
of  grubs  would  seem  a  treasure-house  to  them. 


An  Optimist  217 

The  bayonets  did  not  hack  out  a  trail  as 
rapidly  as  they  had  on  the  day  before,  and 
they  had  made  no  more  than  three  miles  and 
a  half  when  night  shut  down.  Yet,  slow  as 
the  advance  was,  only  half  a  dozen  men  were 
up  with  it,  and,  when  Burrell  would  have  gone 
back  for  the  others,  his  wounded  leg  crumpled 
under  him.  Without  a  word,  Lieutenant  Rob 
erts  joined  Sullivan,  and  it  was  midnight  when 
the  pair  brought  in  the  last  straggler  they 
could  find.  Three  were  still  missing,  and  the 
Captain  forbade  further  search.  "  They'll 
have  to  take  a  chance,"  he  said.  "  H'm." 

When  the  next  day  broke,  merely  a  lighten 
ing  of  the  gloom  under  the  dripping  branches, 
Lieutenant  Roberts  rose  stiffly  from  the  pool 
that  had  formed  about  him  in  the  night  and 
stood,  blue-lipped  and  shaking,  over  the  Cap 
tain,  whose  tortured  leg  would  not  permit  him 
to  do  more  than  raise  himself  on  one  elbow. 
The  two  officers  faced  the  situation  together. 
They  needed  no  words.  All  about  them  lay 
the  forest  of  that  deadly  central  valley.  Some 
where  beyond  it,  unattainably  far  for  the  ma 
jority  of  the  men,  rose  the  western  rampart 
of  the  island.  For  thirty-six  hours  they  had 
had  no  food  but  hell-apples,  the  fever  was 


218  The  Little  Gods 

growing  on  them,  and  three-fourths  of  the 
command,  any  doctor  would  have  said,  could 
not  march  a  mile. 

The  Captain  spoke  at  last,  staring  sullenly 
at  the  ground.  "  Call  the  men,  will  you  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  H'm.  I  reckon  it's  time  to  split." 

Roberts'  face  brightened.  "  I'll  make  it  out 
all  right,"  he  declared.  "  Never  felt  huskier 
in  my  life.  I  could  break  world's  records  from 
here  to  a  plate  of  grub." 

Only  ten  men  of  the  seventeen  who  were 
left  responded  to  the  call.  The  others,  roused 
from  the  stupor  of  deep  sleep,  merely  stared 
up  vacantly  and  muttered,  so  Roberts  let  them 
lie.  "  Boys,"  said  Burrell,  when  they  had 
formed  a  little  circle  round  him,  "  'most  of  us 
need  a  lay-off.  H'm.  So  we're  goin'  to  rest 
up  here  for  a  couple  of  days  and  then  push 
on  slow.  Mr.  Roberts  and  a  couple  of  you 
can  plug  ahead  now,  though,  so's  to  have  some 
grub  cooked  up  to  meet  us.  I  reckon  we'll 
raise  a  famine  in  Nalang.  H'm.  Roberts, 
who'll  you  take  with  you?" 

Despite  the  lightness  of  the  officer's  tone, 
every  man  knew  what  he  asked  for,  and  as 
the  subaltern's  eyes  swept  round  the  circle, 
shrewdly  weighing  each  man's  serviceability, 


An  Optimist  219 

shoulders  squared  and  faces  took  on  looks  of 
quite  ferocious  good  cheer. 

"  I  seen  you  first,  sir,"  Terry  Clancy  cried 
all  at  once,  and  stumbled  to  his  feet. 

"  I've  got  a  fine  healthy  appetite,  myself," 
Sullivan  remarked  plaintively.  "  I'm  with 
you  for  a  sprint,  Lieutenant." 

"  You're  too  old,  Clancy,"  said  Roberts 
kindly.  "  I  want  yearlings  for  this.  And 
you,  Sullivan,"  —  his  voice  held  good-natured 
condescension,  as  he  glanced  down  at  his  own 
bulging  chest  and  sturdy  limbs,  —  "  you're 
too  spindly.  You're  liable  to  double  up,  any 
time." 

At  last  he  chose  Red  Hannigan  and  Peter 
Kelley,  two  men  of  his  own  kind,  bull-necked, 
thick-limbed  and  heavy-shouldered.  The  Cap 
tain  handed  him  one  of  the  two  tins  of  bacon. 
"  We'll  look  for  you  back,"  he  said,  "  long 
about  —  H'm  —  day  after  to-morrow.  Or 
day  after  that.  H'm." 

The  eyes  of  the  officers  glinted  into  each 
other.  "  Sure,"  said  Roberts,  gravely  shaking 
his  commander's  hand.  "  Come  along,  you 
fellows." 

Twelve  days  later  a  party  from  Nalang 
found  Lieutenant  Roberts,  the  first  white  man 


220  The  Little  Gods 

to  win  across  Samar,  sitting  contentedly  on 
the  beach  in  the  sunshine,  forty  miles  above  the 
town,  eating  snails  and  aimlessly  tossing  the 
shells  at  what  had  been  his  feet.  Red  Hanni- 
gan  and  Peter  Kelley  were  never  found,  for 
Roberts  never  could  remember  where  they  left 
him. 

After  the  departure  of  the  rescue  party, 
apathy  settled  over  the  camp  in  the  valley. 
The  Captain  straightened  his  bad  leg  and 
lay  back  with  closed  eyes.  The  others  lay 
about  him,  dozing.  Even  the  worst  of  the 
fever-victims  only  cried  out  occasionally.  Be 
side  the  relief  of  not  having  to  march,  cold 
and  wet  and  hunger  and  sickness  were  little 
things. 

It  was  well  on  in  the  afternoon  when  Clancy 
was  roused  by  a  sound  which  puzzled  him. 
Stumbling  out  of  camp,  he  came  upon  a  sight 
which  struck  him  speechless. 

Sullivan,  sitting  astride  a  mouldering  log, 
was  wrenching  off  strips  of  sodden  bark  and 
digging  his  ringers  deep  into  the  punky  wood. 
Suddenly  the  meaning  of  it  burst  on  Terry. 
"  Quit  that!  "  he  cried.  "  Quit  it,  I  tell  you." 

Sullivan,  glancing  up,  had  the  grace  to  red- 


An  Optimist  221 

den.  Then  he  lowered  his  eyes,  and  resumed 
his  pecking.  "  I  don't  care,"  he  muttered 
defiantly.  "I'm  hungry  enough  to  eat  any 
thing." 

Clancy  turned  away.  Presently,  from  be 
hind  a  clump  of  undergrowth,  there  came  the 
sound  of  ripping  bark.  For  a  while  Sullivan, 
still  busy,  preserved  discreet  silence.  But  his 
grin  broadened  slowly,  and  at  last  he  sang  out, 
"  Hi,  Terry !  Pick  for  the  little  white  ones. 
The  others  has  kind  of  soured,  I  reckon." 

There  was  no  answer.  After  a  time  another 
man  limped  out,  watched  Sullivan  for  a  little, 
and  soon  the  sounds  of  the  chase  rose  from 
another  secluded  spot.  There  was  no  element 
of  sociability  in  those  meals  as  yet. 

Then  came  a  slow  succession  of  days  not 
so  tremendously  hard  to  bear,  as  the  pangs  of 
hunger  faded  into  the  milder  discomfort  of 
starvation,  and  the  fever  felled  them  one  by 
one.  Days  so  like  each  other  that  only  the 
calendar  notched  in  the  grip  of  the  Captain's 
revolver  kept  their  count. 

Each  morning  fewer  of  them  were  able  to 
join  Sullivan  in  the  search  for  grubs  and  seed 
pods,  and  he  began  bringing  them  what  spoil 
of  the  forest  he  could  find.  They  took  it  un- 


222  The  Little  Gods 

questioningly  from  his  hand,  those  who  were 
conscious,  like  children.  Indeed,  as  the  days 
passed,  the  rough  fellows  turned  for  all  their 
needs  to  the  man  who  had  been  their  butt,  and 
he  never  failed  to  meet  their  primitive  wants. 
That  lanky  body  of  his  held  a  surprising  store 
of  tough  endurance,  and  he  seemed  fever- 
proof.  As  for  his  cheerfulness,  it  was  inex 
haustible. 

Big  Terry  Clancy  and  the  Captain  were  the 
last  to  yield  to  their  weakness,  refusing,  gen 
tly,  the  food  Sullivan  brought  them.  Hard 
men  as  those  of  B  were,  not  one  of  them,  in 
his  sane  moments,  spoke  a  word  of  discontent 
or  of  complaint  during  those  days.  I  like  to 
remember  that  of  them,  as  I  like  to  remember 
that  I  never  heard  an  American  regular  sol 
dier,  traditional  grumbler  that  he  is,  grumble 
when  he  had  a  reason  for  it. 

On  the  fourth  evening  after  the  departure 
of  Lieutenant  Roberts,  the  tenth  night  out 
from  Sabey  and  the  fifth  since  they  had  eaten 
food  for  human  beings,  Sullivan  was  the  only 
man  left  stirring  in  the  camp.  In  spite  of  the 
rain  —  and  I  would  have  you  read  always  to 
the  torrential  beat  of  a  tropical  downpour  and 
the  soughing  of  cold,  damp-laden  winds  — 


An  Optimist  223 

he  had  managed,  with  the  last  of  the  matches 
and  the  powder  from  half  a  dozen  cartridges, 
to  kindle  a  fire  in  a  fallen  trunk,  and  had  kept 
it  going,  and  had  dragged  his  comrades  round 
it.  He  sat  beside  the  Captain,  and  presently, 
glancing  down,  he  saw  that  the  officer's  eyes 
were  fixed  steadily  on  him.  "  Anything  you 
want,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"  How  many  of  us,"  Burrell  asked  abruptly, 
"  are  what  you  could  call  fit  ?  " 

Sullivan  surveyed  the  prostrate  men  about 
him.  "  Well,"  he  said  imperturbably,  "  I 
reckon  there's  me.  And  you." 

"  H'm,"  the  Captain  grunted,  and  even  in 
his  sickness  his  eyes  brightened.  "  Then,"  he 
said,  "  I  reckon  it's  up  to  —  us.  H'm." 

For  a  moment  he  mused,  and  then  he  went 
on,  "  It's  no  use  trying  Nalang.  Roberts  tried 
that.  But  if  some  one  could  get  back  to  Sabey 
I  think  some  of  the  men  would  try  —  " 

"  The  boys  would  get  you  out  of  hell,  sir," 
said  Sullivan  gravely,  "  if  you  sent  th'm 
word." 

"  Think  so?  "  said  Burrell.  "  H'm.  Well, 
to-morrow  you'd  better  send  word  to  'em." 
The  Captain's  eyes  had  a  queer  brightness  as 
he  stared  at  Sullivan,  reading  his  face. 


224  The  Little  Gods 

"  H'm,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "  if  I  ever  do 
have  to  get  a  message  out  of  there,  I  hope 
you'll  be  round  to  carry  it." 

Something  in  his  tone  dragged  Sullivan 
toward  him  with  suddenly  blazing  eyes. 
"  Captain,"  he  begged,  demanding  assurance 
from  the  man  who  was  his  deity,  "  do  you 
mean  that?  No  jollyin'  now,  sir.  You  sure 
think  I  can  do  it  ?  " 

"  Think?  "  said  the  Captain.  "  H'm.  I'm 
bankin'  on  you,  Sullivan.  I  know  you  can  do 
it." 

"  Then,"  said  Sullivan  blissfully,  "  by  God, 
I  will,  sir." 

Early  as  it  was  next  morning  when  Sullivan 
rose  for  his  start,  he  found  the  Captain's 
steady  eyes  on  him.  "  You  don't  need  your 
rifle,"  he  said.  "  Nor  your  belt." 

"  I  reckon  not,  sir,"  said  Sullivan  whimsi 
cally,  "  not  for  buggin'." 

"  You  take  that  can  of  bacon  out  of  my 
haversack,"  his  officer  continued.  "  I've  saved 
it  for  this." 

"  I  don't  need  it  none,  sir,"  said  Sullivan, 
edging  away.  "  There'd  ought  to  be  fine  bug- 
gin'  back  along.  An'  hell-apples,  I  reckon." 

"  Take  it,"  said  Burrell  shortly,  and  Sulli- 


An  Optimist  225 

van  yielded  to  the  habit  of  obedience.  He 
turned  for  his  journey. 

"  Hold  on,"  his  officer  commanded. 
"  You're  forgettin'  something."  He  lifted 
a  clawlike  hand,  and  Sullivan  gripped  it  for 
a  minute  in  silence.  He  strode  across  the 
little  opening  to  the  beginning  of  the  back 
trail.  There  he  halted,  turned,  and  hurled 
the  tin  of  bacon  at  his  commander.  "  You 
go  to  hell,  sir,"  he  shrilled  defiantly.  "  I'll 
do  fine,  buggin',"  —  and  he  ran  stumblingly 
down  the  trail. 

The  Captain  twisted  his  head  —  it  was  the 
only  movement  he  could  make  —  and  watched 
the  retreating  figure  of  the  mutineer.  "  H'm," 
he  muttered  after  it,  and  shut  his  eyes,  to 
wait. 

For  the  first  few  hours  Sullivan,  uplifted  by 
the  thought  of  his  mission,  went  on  at  what 
seemed  to  him  a  tremendous  pace.  In  reality 
his  knees  lifted  jerkily,  his  feet  came  down 
flat  and  stiff,  and  his  stride  was  that  of  a 
child.  A  giddiness,  too,  overtook  him  now 
and  then,  and  a  white  mist  drifted  before  his 
eyes.  At  such  times  the  walls  of  the  trail 
seemed  to  rush  by  in  a  blur  of  green,  and 


226  The  Little  Gods 

he  had  an  exhilarating  sense  of  rapid  move 
ment. 

Long  before  noon  he  had  covered  the  three 
miles  and  a  half  to  the  first  camp  on  the  back 
trail.  There  he  hesitated.  A  temptingly 
crumbly  log  lay  beside  the  trail,  and  his  stom 
ach  was  cramped  with  such  hunger  as  he  had 
not  felt  for  days.  But  he  halted  only  a  mo 
ment.  "  Time  enough  to  eat  to-night,"  he 
muttered,  and  went  on. 

The  afternoon  was  harder.  The  giddiness 
and  the  mist  assailed  him  oftener,  and  several 
times,  when  the  blankness  became  complete,  he 
was  roused  by  finding  that  his  face  had  come 
into  not  ungentle  contact  with  the  ground. 
Once,  doubling  limply,  he  struck  his  face  on 
his  knee  instead,  and  a  cut  lip  gave  him  the 
pleasant  salty  taste  of  blood.  Sharp  pains  of 
breathlessness  stabbed  his  sides  at  intervals, 
and  his  heart  had  fits  of  throbbing  suffoca 
tingly.  But  he  never  halted  as  long  as  he  could 
see.  When  the  trail  was  only  blackness  in  the 
night  he  sank  down. 

The  rain  and  the  light  woke  him  to  an  ac 
cusing  sense  that  it  had  long  been  day.  He 
moved  on  at  once.  "  I'll  eat  when  I've  made 
that  up,"  he  muttered,  as  the  blur  enclosed  him. 


An  Optimist  227 

That  day  was  mostly  blur  until,  along  in  the 
afternoon,  his  mind  cleared  suddenly.  The 
ground  sloped  upward  under  his  feet.  A 
rocky,  sparsely-wooded  ridge  rose  above  him. 
Remembrance  tingled  through  him.  "  My 
cactus- farm !  "  he  cried,  in  delighted  recog 
nition.  "  I'm  gettin'  almost  there." 

With  his  knees  doubling  under  him,  he 
clawed  his  way  to  the  ridge,  and  a  well- 
remembered  landscape  lay  about  him,  dark  bil 
lows  of  unbroken  forest  and  a  horizon  of  up- 
tumbled  hills.  The  huge  emptiness  of  it  smote 
him  like  a  blow  and  he  turned  to  the  old  camp. 
The  signs  of  human  occupation,  the  remem 
brance  of  men  who  had  spoken  there  and  of 
the  words  they  had  said,  comforted  him  won 
derfully.  "  Here,"  he  said,  having  fallen  into 
a  way  of  thinking  aloud,  "  is  where  I  eat. 
They'd  ought  to  be  fine  buggin'  here." 

But  the  ridge  was  disappointingly  bare  of 
provender.  Not  a  rotten  log,  not  a  seed  pod, 
rewarded  his  toilsome  search.  At  last,  where 
a  hanging  corner  of  rock  had  sheltered  it,  he 
came  upon  a  torpid  colony  of  tiger-ants.  He 
looked  at  them  dubiously.  "  I  wonder,"  he 
muttered,  "if  anybody  ever  et  an  ant?  I 
reckon  not.  Don't  seem  to  be  much  to  th'm." 


228  The  Little  Gods 

As  he  stirred  the  sluggish  insects  with  a 
doubtful  finger,  one  of  them  set  its  mandibles 
in  his  flesh.  Sullivan's  eyes  lit  with  deter 
mination.  "  I'm  hungrier'n  you  be,  I  reckon," 
he  said  gravely. 

With  the  refreshing  acidity  of  his  experi 
ment  strong  on  his  tongue,  he  rose  at  last, 
regretfully.  "  It  would  seem  kind  of  home 
like  sleepin'  here,"  he  said.  "  But  I  reckon 
I'd  better  be  gallopin'  along."  And  he  pushed 
on  till  once  more  darkness  brought  him  merci 
ful  oblivion. 

He  woke  to  daylight  with  all  his  senses  clear 
but  one.  He  understood  —  there  had  been 
times  when  he  forgot  even  that  —  that  he  was 
Sullivan,  that  behind  him  lay  his  comrades, 
starving,  that  before  him  the  trail  led  to  men 
who  needed  but  a  word,  and  that  he  had  been 
chosen  to  take  it.  But  his  sense  of  time  was 
gone.  How  long  he  had  slept  he  could  not 
guess.  It  might  have  been  one  night,  or  many. 
They  might  all  have  died  behind  him,  those 
sick  men  and  the  Old  Man  who  banked  on 
him. 

In  torture  at  the  uncertainty,  he  rose  and 
stumbled  forward  again.  After  a  while  —  it 
might  have  been  an  hour  or  many  days  —  the 


An  Optimist  229 

trail  brought  him  to  a  torrential  river.  He 
recognized  it  dimly  as  the  Sabey.  They  had 
come  up  it  once,  sometime,  any  time,  walking 
in  its  rocky  bed.  Now  its  swirling  waters  cov 
ered  the  trail. 

Painstakingly  Sullivan  collected  his  misty 
faculties.  There  was  a  general  feeling  of 
morning  in  the  air.  By  night  he  must  be  at 
Sabey,  he  was  convinced.  He  must  hurry, 
therefore.  A  clear  idea  flashed  across  his 
mind.  A  raft!  He  must  build  a  raft  and 
hurry  with  the  rushing  river,  since  there  was 
no  more  trail.  He  drew  his  heavy  knife- 
bayonet  and  turned  to  the  woods.  After  a 
while  darkness  shut  down  and  stopped  his 
work.  But  he  had  cut  a  good  many  poles. 

The  next  thing  he  knew  it  was  light  again, 
so  he  dragged  one  of  his  poles  to  the  river 
and  dropped  it  in.  It  sank.  Another  and 
another  did  the  same.  When  they  touched  the 
water  they  sank.  When  Sullivan  understood 
that  his  poles  would  not  float,  he  lost  his  steady 
hopefulness  for  the  first  time. 

But  after  a  while  he  turned  wearily,  and 
stumbled  off  along  the  rocky,  overhanging 
banks  of  Sabey  River.  When  he  had  walked 
dizzily  a  little  distance,  he  fell  and  lay  still. 


230  The  Little  Gods 

A  fall  on  that  cutting  volcanic  rock  was  an 
other  matter  from  a  fall  on  the  trail.  At  last 
he  recovered  enough  to  stagger  on  for  a  few 
more  steps.  Then  he  fell  again.  That  time 
he  did  not  rise. 

But  the  shock  and  the  loss  of  blood  cleared 
his  head.  At  last  he  recognized  his  predica 
ment.  He  was  through.  There  was  no  bit 
terness  in  the  thought.  He  had  done  his  best, 
and  failed.  The  torment  of  hurry  was  gone, 
and  he  lay  and  watched  the  foaming  river  and 
the  overarching  trees.  "  I  can't  do  it,"  Sulli 
van  told  himself  simply,  and  quit. 

But  suddenly  his  merciless  self  assailed  him. 
"  There's  another  way,"  it  urged.  "  You  can 
do  it.  Th'  Old  Man  said  so.  Try  it." 

Weakly,  half-sobbing,  Sullivan  obeyed  the 
summons,  and  got  to  his  knees.  He  put  out  a 
hand  and  planted  it  on  the  rock,  drew  up  his 
knee  toward  it,  and  his  body  swayed  forward. 
He  put  out  his  other  hand,  drew  up  his  other 
knee,  swayed  forward  again.  He  had  gained 
a  foot,  at  least. 

"  By  God,"  shouted  Sullivan's  self  to  him 
exultantly,  "  you  can  do  it !  Try  it  again. 
You  can't  walk,  but  you  can  crawl,  I  reckon. 
Whoop-eee-ee !  Hit  her  up ! " 


An  Optimist  231 

And  Sullivan,  obedient  as  always,  hit  her 
up. 

And  so  at  last,  seventeen  days  from  the 
time  he  left  Sabey,  he  returned  to  it,  a  blind, 
gaunt,  rain-beaten,  silent,  grimly  crawling 
thing.  He  had  almost  reached  the  barracks 
when  a  soldier,  hurrying  through  the  rain, 
spied  him  and  raised  a  shout.  He  revived 
for  a  moment  when  they  lifted  him,  and 
opened  his  eyes. 

"  Back  along,"  faltered  the  messenger. 
"  Starvin'.  Hurry  up.  God !  "  he  sighed, 
and  collapsed  in  their  arms. 

They  carried  him  to  the  shack  they  called 
a  hospital,  and  while  the  relief  party  gathered 
and  went  out,  twenty  silent  men  loaded  down 
with  rations,  the  post  surgeon  and  his  wife 
worked  over  him.  Suddenly  the  girl  broke 
down. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried.  "  Look  at  his  poor  hands 
and  knees!  Oh,  Will,  what  did  that  to  him?  " 

"  What  ? "  stuttered  the  young  surgeon 
gruffly.  "  What !  Why,  the  —  the  nervy  son 
—  son  of  a  gun  walked  on  'em,  God  knows 
how  far,  that's  all!  Fill  those  water  bottles, 
will  you.  And  hurry  up." 


232  The  Little  Gods 

Two  days  later  Sullivan  opened  his  eyes, 
and  stared  wonderingly  at  the  room,  and  the 
lamplight,  and  the  olla  hanging  in  the  window, 
and  the  post  surgeon's  pretty  wife,  who  sat 
beside  his  cot.  At  last  his  eyes  rested  on  his 
own  hands,  shapeless  in  bandages.  And  as 
he  looked  at  them  his  lips  trembled,  and  he 
began  to  cry,  weakly,  like  a  child. 

The  post  surgeon's  wife  thought  she  under 
stood,  and  her  own  breath  caught.  She  was 
very  new  to  the  Army,  and  she  was  trying 
to  make  a  hero  of  Sullivan.  "  Poor  fellow," 
she  murmured,  "  I  know  they're  bad.  But 
we'll  fix  them  up.  Don't  cry  about  them." 

"  I  ain't  c-cryin' !  "  Sullivan  whispered,  in 
tremulous  indignation.  "  I'm  1-laughin'.  I 
reckon,"  he  muttered,  and  a  ripple  of  the  old 
whimsicality  swept  across  his  face,  "  I  must 
be  about  th'  first  man  ever  wore  his  hands  to 
a  blister,  walkin'."  The  wonder  of  the 
thought  held  him  entranced. 

The  girl  thought  he  was  light-headed.  "  Is 
there  anything  you'd  like  ?  "  she  asked  sooth 
ingly. 

Sullivan  considered.  "  Salt,"  he  announced 
emphatically.  "  I  want  salt.  Ev'ry  drop 
you've  got  in  th'  place.  What're  you  lookin' 


An  Optimist  233 

at?  Salt's  cheap  enough,  ain't  it?  Well,  I 
want  some.  Seems  like  I  hadn't  had  no  salt 
f'r  years." 

How  the  relief  party  did  its  work  is  another 
story,  and  a  brave  one.  It  is  hard  to  kill 
strong  men  by  exhaustion,  and,  by  the  time 
Sullivan  could  walk  a  little,  the  Captain  and 
the  other  rescued  men  were  sitting  up  in  bed. 
At  last  a  day  came  when  Burrell  was  permitted 
to  have  one  visitor.  "  Send  Sullivan,"  he  or 
dered. 

The  lanky  fellow  shuffled  in  bashfully,  and 
stood  with  averted  eyes.  "  Glad  to  see  you're 
back,  sir,"  he  muttered. 

"Well,"  asked  Burrell  gruffly,  "you  can 
shake  hands,  can't  you  ?  " 

Sullivan,  grinning  sheepishly,  held  up  a 
muffled  paw.  "  I  reckon  not,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  'em?  "  the  Captain 
demanded. 

"  Blistered  th'm,  sir,"  Sullivan  responded 
with  solemn  joy.  "  Blistered  th'm,  walkin'." 

"  H'm,"  the  Captain  muttered.  His  eyes 
were  burning  into  the  man.  "  Sullivan,"  he 
said  abruptly,  "  there's  a  can  of  bacon  in  my 
haversack  that  belongs  to  you." 


234  The  Little  Gods 

Sullivan  gulped.  Discipline  had  him  by  the 
heels  again.  "  Beg  y'  pardon,  sir,"  he  mum 
bled  nervously.  "  I  reckon  I  must  a  been  sort 
of  loco  that  day." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Old  Man  of  B  Company 
gravely,  "  maybe  I'll  let  it  go  this  time.  But 
see  it  don't  happen  again.  H'm." 


CHAPTER    X 

THIS    FORTUNE 

This  Fortune  you  speak  of,  tell  me,  what  sort  of 
creature  is  she,  to  have  the  good  things  of  the  world  so 
in  her  hands  ?  — The  Inferno  of  Dante  Alighieri. 

THE  second  of  my  Argonauts  was  of  quite 
another  sort.  Whatever  graces  of  body  and 
mind  Nature  has  to  give,  she  had  given  him 
—  and  he  had  wasted  them.  With  his  invin 
cible  and  dauntless  youth  he  might  have  been 
a  companion  for  Cortez  and  stout  Bernal 
Diaz,  a  Crusader,  almost  anything  he  chose, 
and  he  was  —  I  borrow  the  phrase  of  a  better 
man  than  I  —  a  Camp-Follower  of  Fortune, 
a  wasted  man.  The  outskirts  of  the  world  are 
full  of  them.  That  such  things  can  be,  that 
men  can  be  born  so  strong,  so  lovable,  and 
then  be  wasted,  seems  to  me  the  most  inex 
plicable  of  the  caprices  of  that  Fortune  which 
puzzled  Dante  Alighieri  long  ago. 

Mid-heaven  high,  the  morning  sun  blazed 
above  the  forlorn  little  lumber-port,  calling  the 


236  The  Little  Gods 

inhabitants  thereof  to  arise  and  make  hay  dili 
gently  during  the  few  weeks  it  still  had  to  shine 
before  the  change  of  monsoons  and  the  rainy 
season  blotted  the  world  in  mist.  The  call 
seemed  to  arouse  little  enthusiasm.  Over  the 
channel,  where  the  Rio  Bagalayag  winds  out 
by  the  bar,  a  pair  of  gulls  wheeled  aimlessly, 
plunging  into  the  yellow  water  now  and  then, 
and  rising  with  harsh  cries.  Out  beyond  them 
in  the  distance,  where  Point  Bagalayag  wa 
vered  in  the  heat,  a  lorcha  drifted  with  limp 
sails,  becalmed  in  the  lee  of  Mount  Bagalayag. 
In  the  one  street  of  Bagalayag  itself,  the  grassy 
lane  which  follows  the  curve  of  the  shore,  two 
Chinamen  with  a  long  whip-saw  were  gnaw 
ing  a  plank  from  a  four-foot  log  of  molave, 
sawing  steadily  with  the  patient  endurance  of 
their  race,  brown  arms  swinging  in  and  out, 
brown  bodies  swaying.  At  the  end  of  each 
stroke,  they  grunted  rhythmically,  and  the 
music  of  their  industry  —  Ugh!  Kch-chee-e- 
e-Arghh!  Kch-chee-e-e-U gh!  —  was  the  only 
sound  in  Bagalayag  that  morning,  save  the 
raucous  complaint  of  the  distant  gulls. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Bagalayag  was  waiting 
in  hushed  expectancy  for  something  inevitable 
to  happen.  On  the  shady  side  of  the  nipa 


This  Fortune  237 

church,  which  still  manages  to  rear  its  rick 
ety  walls  at  the  corner  of  the  brown  and 
weedy  plaza,  the  populace  was  gathered  — • 
forty-one  men,  fifty-two  women,  fifty-two 
babes  in  arms,  and  seventy-three  children  of 
varying  sex  and  age,  speechless  for  once,  with 
the  smoke  of  their  cigarettes  dissolving  above 
them  like  unfragrant  incense.  And  the  gaze 
of  all  that  multitude  was  fixed  unwinkingly 
on  a  tin-roofed  house  —  the  only  one  in  town 
—  which  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
close  to  the  water's  edge. 

In  that  pretentious  dwelling  an  unprece 
dented  event  seemed  likely  to  happen,  for  in 
its  upper  chamber  one  of  the  lords  of  the  earth 
lay  deathly  sick  of  a  fever.  Bagalayag  as  yet 
recorded  no  death  of  a  white  man  in  its  simple 
annals,  therefore  it  sat  and  smoked  and  waited, 
all  except  its  stolid,  alien  Chinamen,  who 
cared  nothing  for  life  or  death  or  anything 
but  planks. 

Occasionally  a  voice  floated  out  from  the 
Tin-Roofed  House,  weak  and  thin  but  full  of 
helpless  rage,  and  at  the  sound  the  inhabitants 
of  Bagalayag  wagged  their  heads  and  spoke 
softly.  "  The  Senor  Ess-soffti  is  not  dead  : — 
yet,"  they  murmured. 


238  The  Little  Gods 

In  Hamburg,  far  enough  from  Bagalayag 
in  miles,  there  is  a  house  which  sells  anything, 
from  elephants  to  orchids.  Every  product  of 
the  animal  or  vegetable  kingdom  from  one 
pole  to  the  other,  'round  with  the  equator  and 
back  again,  is  included  in  the  complete  line 
which  the  Hamburgische  Gesellschaft  carries, 
for  this  body  is  a  true  body  whose  busy  nerve- 
ends  net  the  round  world.  Men  on  grimy 
ships  whose  battered  fore  feet  are  set  across 
uncharted  leagues  of  sea,  men  who  rot  in 
unheard-of  towns  —  yet  continue  to  live  and 
trade  in  defiance  of  every  hygienic  law  —  men 
who  plod  untracked  continents  and  unknown, 
sleeping  islands  with  savage  followers,  are  the 
organs  by  which  it  acts. 

Set  above  all  these  is  the  good  Right  Eye 
of  the  Company,  the  man  who,  by  virtue  of 
wild-wood  lore  and  craftsmanship,  and  first 
hand  knowledge  of  the  far  nooks  and  byways 
of  the  earth,  by  right  of  energy  and  perse 
verance,  outranks  the  army  of  traders  and  col 
lectors  and  stands  next  the  Brain.  Herr  Felix 
Schrofft  is  his  name,  always  spoken  with  re 
spect  and  envy  by  his  associates  and  rivals  in 
his  strong  man's  calling.  And  now,  become 
the  Senor  Ess-soffti  on  liquid  Malay  tongues, 


This  Fortune  239 

he  lay  alone  at  bay  in  the  Tin-Roofed  House, 
and  held  the  breathless  attention  of  the  popu 
lace  of  Bagalayag  in  Mindoro. 

The  arena  where  he  fought,  that  small,  bare, 
upper  chamber,  was  very  simply  furnished 
with  a  round  table,  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  cam 
phor-wood  chest,  a  bamboo  cage  imprisoning 
a  parrot,  and  a  folding  cot  upholstered  in  the 
severest  taste  with  dingy  gray  canvas.  The 
table  held  the  fly-  and  lizard-bitten  remnants 
of  a  meal,  the  chairs  were  draped  with  the 
muddy  garments  their  owner  had  flung  there 
hastily  three  days  before,  a  litter  of  other 
clothing  sprawled  from  beneath  the  lid  of  the 
chest,  and  on  the  cot,  which  stood  before  a 
seaward-facing  window,  was  stretched  the  re 
doubtable  Sefior  Ess-soffti  himself,  not  at  all 
in  the  mental  attitude  which  our  Christian 
convention  prescribes  for  those  in  articulo 
mortis.  Despite  the  pallor  of  the  cheeks  be 
neath  the  smut  of  the  newly  sprouted  beard 
and  the  yellow  gleam  of  the  eyeballs  and  the 
leaden  inertness  of  the  shrunken  limbs  which 
barely  hollowed  the  taut  canvas  where  they 
lay,  the  shaggy,  wizened  monkey  of  a  man 
was  plainly  beset  by  the  very  worst  of  tempers, 


240  The  Little  Gods 

which  only  his  extreme  weakness  kept  from 
violent  expression. 

So  he  lay  chafing  there  that  morning1,  just 
as  he  had  lain  for  days.  Occasionally  his  rest 
less  eyes  met  the  beady  ones  of  the  parrot,  and 
the  imprisoned  bird  shrieked  with  silly  laugh 
ter.  On  such  occasions  the  Senor  Ess-soffti 
shook  his  fist,  a  menace  which  showed  mostly 
in  the  convulsions  of  his  face,  and  muttered 
weakly,  "  Sing,  you  deffel,  sing ! "  falling 
thereafter  into  a  murmured  torrent  of  words, 
as  he  consigned  the  Philippine  Islands  and  all 
things  in  them  to  everlasting  torment. 

Even  a  hidebound  moralist,  knowing  all  the 
circumstances,  might  have  found  some  pallia 
tion  for  Herr  Schrofft's  unspiritual  estate. 
Fever  had  stricken  him  at  an  inopportune  sea 
son,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  faced 
a  possibility  of  failure  with  which  he  could 
not  cope.  Even  now  the  freighter  Sarstoon 
had  turned  her  stubby  nose  Mindoro-ward  at 
Schrofft's  suggestion.  In  ten  days  she  would 
be  lying  off  Bagalayag,  waiting  for  the  cargo 
he  had  promised  her,  and  even  when  one  has 
no  fever,  ten  days  are  little  time  in  which  to 
fell  and  trim  a  hundred  cubic  meters  of  a  wood 
so  dense  that  it  eats  an  axe  like  granulated 


This  Fortune  241 

metal,  and  float  it  down  the  miles  of  oozing 
mud  they  call  the  Rio  Bagalayag,  and  load 
it  before  the  northeast  monsoon  —  already 
threatening  in  the  clouds  —  comes  to  lash  the 
open  roadstead  into  a  fury  of  spume  and  break 
ing  rollers. 

He  could  foresee  it  all,  the  excessive  sym 
pathy  of  the  Sarstoon's  skipper,  the  meek  ex 
planation  of  the  House  to  the  impatient  cus 
tomer,  the  commiseration  and  sly  elation  of 
his  acquaintances  and  rivals  that  he  had  failed 
at  last,  the  universal  grunt  of  "  Hard  luck, 
Schrofft "  —  hard  luck  in  a  trade  whose 
frankly  brutal  creed  discredits  a  man  for  one 
adverse  stroke  of  fortune  as  for  any  other 
sign  of  personal  weakness  and  unfitness.  All 
that  must  come,  unless  he  could  find  some 
means  of  thwarting  Dame  Fate.  And  so,  not 
finding  the  means,  he  cursed  the  officious  bel 
dame  heartily. 

Suddenly  he  noticed  that  the  drone  of  the 
saw  had  ceased.  Doubtless  the  coolies  had 
stopped  to  wipe  their  streaming  faces,  but 
Schrofft  was  in  no  mood  to  seek  excuses  for 
them.  "  Loaf,  you  deffels,  loaf !  "  he  shouted 
venomously. 

As  if  in  response  to  his  taunt,  the  music  of 


242  The  Little  Gods 

the  saw  began  again,  but  mingled  with  it  came 
the  chatter  of  many  voices  and  the  soft  flop, 
flop  of  many  padding  feet.  Raising  his  head 
a  wearisome  half-inch  to  peer  from  his  win 
dow,  Herr  Schrofft  saw,  with  supreme  dis 
gust,  the  sprung  masts  and  frowsy  rigging  of 
the  monthly  packet  from  Batangas  in  the  river. 
Somehow  or  other  the  hours  had  dragged  by 
uncounted;  it  was  afternoon,  and  the  crazy 
lorcha  had  drifted  to  her  haven  in  spite  of 
calm  and  childish  seamanship;  while  he,  Herr 
Schrofft  the  indomitable,  had  one  day  less  in 
which  to  do  his  work.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  illness,  the  hard-pressed  little  man  groaned 
for  sympathy,  and  pitying,  sentimental,  Teu 
tonic  tears  burned  his  eyes.  "  If  I  only  had 
just  one  white  man  with  me,"  he  muttered. 

The  confusion  without  came  nearer,  draw 
ing  down  the  street,  and  presently  the  stairs 
of  the  Tin-Roofed  House  clattered  under 
booted  feet  and  its  fabric  trembled  slightly. 
The  invalid's  face  brightened  with  curiosity. 
No  native  of  the  Philippines  has  the  combined 
weight  and  energy  necessary  to  make  a  house 
shake  when  he  walks.  Deus  ex  Machinal 
That  was  a  favorite  phrase  of  Schrofft's,  al 
most  the  only  Latin  of  Gymnasium  days  that 


This  Fortune  243 

had  stuck.  Perhaps  the  Man  had  come  with 
the  Hour.  Schrofft  watched  the  door  with 
feverish  intentness. 

It  opened  and  a  white  man  entered,  white 
at  least  in  fundamental  coloring,  although  his 
skin  was  a  raw,  beefy  red  from  newly  ac 
quired  sunburn,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  clad 
serviceably  in  sombrero,  the  relic  of  an  army 
shirt,  the  ruins  of  khaki  riding-breeches  and, 
most  incongruously,  a  pair  of  handsome  ri 
ding-boots,  whose  russet  leather  was  cleaned 
and  polished  till  it  glittered.  So  far  all  was 
well,  but  the  face  —  the  hollowed  cheeks,  the 
dark  puffy  rims  beneath  the  eyes,  the  wavering 
glance  of  the  bright  blue  eyes  themselves,  the 
nervous  twitching  of  the  full  red  lips,  set  in 
a  smile  of  deprecating  impudence,  the  keen, 
high-bred  features  blunted  and  battered  by 
dissipation,  all  spoke  of  one  thing.  Schrofft 
sized  up  his  visitor  with  narrowed  lids,  and 
spoke  his  opinion  briefly.  "  I  haf  no  use  for 
bums,"  he  said. 

Like  a  mask,  the  wheedling  smirk  dropped 
from  the  newcomer's  face.  "  Hock  the  Kaiser, 
a  wandering  Dutchman ! "  he  cried  airily,  ad 
vancing  to  the  cot. 

Schrofft's  little  eyes  burned   red.     "  I   am 


244  The  Little  Gods 

Herr  Felix  Schrofft,  Explorer  for  the  Ham- 
burgische  Gesellschaft,"  he  said  with  dignity, 
"  and  I  haf  no  use  for  bums.  Get  out." 

"  'Tis  a  certain  matter  of  delayed  remit 
tances,"  the  stranger  explained,  as  he  uncere 
moniously  dumped  the  encumbering  garments 
from  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  the  table.  "  I 
must  identify  myself,  Herr  Softy.  I  am  Rich 
ard  Roe,  Esquire,  ward  of  the  famous  John 
Doe,  of  whom  you  may  have  heard.  While 
the  remittances  delay,  I  wander,  seeking  whom 
and  what  I  may  devour."  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
gazed  ruefully  at  the  dusty  viands  before 
him.  "  As  usual,  I  seem  to  have  come  to  the 
wrong  shop,"  he  murmured.  "  But  here  at 
least  are  cigarettes.  I  will  not  stand  on  cere 
mony." 

While  the  match  flared,  Schrofft  stared  at 
his  tormentor  with  at  least  as  much  of  bewil 
derment  as  of  wrath.  "  If  I  could  hold  my 
revolver,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  think  I  would 
shoot  you.  I  haf  no  use  for  bums." 

Through  a  cloud  of  smoke,  Mr.  Richard 
Roe  gazed  whimsically  at  the  invalid.  "  The 
question  seems  to  be,"  he  suggested  mildly, 
"  whether  the  bum  has  a  use  for  you.  And 
I  rather  think  he  has."  He  crossed  one  leg 


This  Fortune  245 

over  the  other  and  became  pleasantly  didactic. 
"  I  am  not  always  what  you  see  me  now,  Herr 
Softy.  One  short  week  ago  I  sat  in  Don 
Miguel  Rafferty's  establishment  in  Batangas, 
wooing  fickle  Fortune  at  the  wheel.  The  jade 
stripped  me,  I  was  sold  out,  up  against  it; 
so  I  became  a  thorough  bum,  in  manners, 
morals,  and  in  dress.  The  boots,"  he  di 
gressed,  glancing  complacently  at  his  well- 
shod  feet,  "  are  somewhat  out  of  character, 
I  admit.  Otherwise  I  am  a  bum  pure  and 
simple,  as  you  have  three  times  observed,  but 
a  bum  of  a  quality  of  which  you  never 
dreamed,  a  masterless  man  reduced  to  his 
primal  elements,  three  appetites  and  a  sense 
of  humor.  Herr  Softy,  beware  of  me.  I  am 
a  dangerous  character,  I  warn  you  frankly  at 
the  start." 

Mr.  Richard  Roe  approached  the  cot  once 
more.  "  Speaking  of  revolvers,"  he  remarked, 
"  reminds  me  that  I  left  my  own  in  Batangas, 
in  care  of  Uncle  Monte  de  Piedad."  He  drew 
Schrofft's  weapon  from  beneath  the  pillow, 
and  inspected  it  rapidly.  "  A  poor  thing,  but 
a  Colt's,"  he  muttered.  "  Calibre  41,  of  course. 
How  European !  " 

Herr  Schrofft,  his  eyes  still  closed,  groaned 


246  The  Little  Gods 

weakly.  It  was  hard  that  his  respectable  and 
well-ordered  brain  should  conjure  up  a  night 
mare  of  vagabondage  like  this,  and  supply 
fitting  words  for  the  figure. 

"  I  came  southward  to  Mindoro,"  the  drawl 
ing  voice  went  on,  "  and  at  the  first  stroke  I 
am  half  a  man  again.  I  have  a  gun.  Here 
is  a  Tin-Roofed  House  in  which  to  sleep ;  here 
is  tobacco  to  smoke;  through  the  chinks  in 
the  floor  I  perceive  sleeping  chickens  which 
promise  food.  Best  of  all,  I  find  here  a  com 
panion  for  my  solitude.  Herr  Softy,  you  may 
need  an  heir  before  long.  Behold  him  here 
in  me." 

"Herr  Gott!"  Schrofft  groaned  again,  "I 
am  going  crazier  every  minute."  Suddenly 
he  opened  his  eyes,  for  the  door  swung  on 
its  hinges  and  a  head  surmounted  by  a  shock 
of  coarse  black  hair  was  thrust  within.  At 
the  sight  of  it,  all  his  aggressiveness  returned. 
"  Son  of  fifty  fathers !  "  he  screamed.  "  Be 
cause  you  think  I  am  dying  you  run  away, 
and  now  you  have  the  shamelessness  to  come 
back!  Go  and  be  a  muchacho  for  the  deffel! 
I  shall  not  die;  in  two  days  I  shall  be  strong 
enough  to  kill  you." 

"  It  was  only  his  canny  Filipino  way,"  Mr. 


This  Fortune  247 

Richard  Roe  broke  in,  coming  to  the  rescue 
of  the  unfaithful  servant.  "  He  wanted  an 
alibi  for  the  inquest.  Slave,"  he  announced 
sternly,  "  I  have  saved  your  life.  Fetch  more 
cigarettes  and  a  bottle  of  whatever  burning 
water  the  market  offers.  Then  kill  three  chick 
ens  and  cook  them  with  plenty  rice  —  and  no 
grease.  The  Senor  Softy  and  I  will  have 
a  mucho  grande  chow-chow  to  celebrate  my 
home-coming.  I  am  his  heir.  Sigue!  Pronto! 
Madili! " 

Schrofft  glared  hopelessly  at  Mr.  Richard 
Roe.  "  Then  you  are  real !  "  he  cried.  "  That 
boy,  he  sees  you  also,  he  hears  you,  he  obeys! 
Mein  Gott!  You  are  a  bum.  You  haf  no 
home,  you  haf  no  money,  you  haf  no  grub, 
you  haf  no  chob.  And  I  would  gif  a  hundert 
dollars  for  just  one  man! " 

"  Alas,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Roe  hollowly, 
"  I  am  not  a  man,  and  the  hundred  is  un 
claimed.  I  am  the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made 
of,  bad  dreams.  But  I  have  my  better  im 
pulses,  and  I  feel  them  stirring  at  the  prospect 
of  food.  I  will  be  a  ministering  angel  to  you, 
an  airy,  fairy,  army  nurse,  pressing  my  cool 
hand  softly  on  your  fevered  brow."  He  suited 
the  action  to  the  word,  save  that  the  hand  was 


248  The  Little  Gods 

hot  and  gritty.  "  Herr  Softy,  your  pulse  is 
rapid,  your  temperature  is  rising,  you  tremble 
on  the  verge  of  a  paroxysm  of  fever.  Where 
is  the  quinine  ?  " 

The  recurrent  hot  stage  of  his  disease  had 
indeed  seized  the  patient,  and  as  it  grew  upon 
him  he  lost  more  and  more  his  grip  of  reality 
under  the  mad  contradictions  of  Mr.  Richard 
Roe's  speech  and  conduct,  and  the  potent  spell 
of  the  drug  which  he  administered  with  a  lav 
ish  hand.  Dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  the  room 
stretched  wider  and  higher  about  him,  and  as 
the  pulse  boomed  and  roared  in  his  ears,  he 
saw  in  the  distance  a  phantasm  which  he  knew 
was  called  Mr.  Richard  Roe,  sitting  at  a  table 
and  going  through  the  motions  of  a  real  man. 
It  drank  thirstily  from  a  bottle  which  a  fright 
ened  muchacho  brought;  it  smoked  endless 
cigarettes ;  it  dismembered  a  steaming  chicken 
with  its  fingers,  and  ate  it  daintily,  ate  another, 
stretched  back  in  its  chair  and  grunted  with 
content.  Phantom  or  reality,  Mr.  Richard 
Roe  began  to  be  a  comfort,  he  made  himself 
so  much  at  home.  Schrofft  closed  his  eyes 
and  dozed. 

Suddenly  through  his  slumber  cut  a  well- 
remembered  sound:  Ugh!  Kch-chee-e-e~ 


This  Fortune  249 

Arghh!  Kch-chee-e-e-Ugh!  He  woke  to  a 
moment  of  clear-headedness  and  the  sense  of 
his  predicament.  It  was  almost  sunset;  only 
eight  days  were  left.  "  My  trees,  my  trees !  " 
he  quavered,  trying  weakly  to  sit  up.  "  I 
must  go  and  get  them." 

Instantly  the  "  cool  hand  "  rested  on  his 
forehead  and,  not  unkindly,  he  was  shoved 
back  on  his  pillows.  "  You've  been  dozing," 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Richard  Roe  explained  sooth 
ingly.  "  What's  the  matter?  " 

Brokenly,  still  as  in  a  dream,  Schrofft  heard 
his  own  voice  go  croaking  on,  speaking  ram- 
blingly  of  trees,  always  of  trees.  The  clump 
of  iron-woods  that  grow  at  the  corner  where 
the  mangroves  are  thickest  on  the  bank,  thirty 
miles  up-stream.  The  twelve  huge  trees  that 
stand  up  so  high  and  have  their  tops  pleached 
together.  Those  were  the  ones ;  they  must  be 
cut  without  delay.  He  must  start  at  once, 
because,  you  see,  the  Sarstoon  would  be  in 
on  the  i8th,  and,  if  she  didn't  get  the  trees, 
the  monsoon  would  change.  And  then  her 
voyage  would  be  wasted,  and  the  customer 
would  not  have  for  six  more  months  the  wood 
of  unique  density  which  he  wanted  for  non 
magnetic  gears,  and  the  House  would  have  to 


250  The  Little  Gods 

bear  the  blame,  when  it  was  all  the  fault  of  a 
fool  named  Schrofft,  who  lay  around  with 
fever  when  there  was  work  to  do. 

At  a  great  distance  he  saw  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
sitting  with  crossed  legs,  smoking  in  long, 
meditative  purr's,  and  inspecting  him  narrowly 
with  keen,  unwavering  blue  eyes. 

"  You're  a  rather  game  little  man,"  said  Mr. 
Richard  Roe  approvingly.  After  a  long  time 
he  spoke  again.  "  Thirty  miles  up,  you  say. 
Is  there  any  one  around  who  knows  an  iron- 
wood  when  he  sees  one  ?  " 

There  was  a  new,  a  compelling  quality  in 
the  voice,  which  Schrofft  had  not  heard  be 
fore.  "  That  coward  muchacho,  that  Juan, 
he  knows.  He  has  been  there  with  me,"  said 
Schrofft. 

"  And  the  tools,  where  are  they  ?  "  asked  the 
compelling  tones. 

"  In  the  canoes,  all  ready,"  Schrofft  an 
swered  obediently. 

"  I  can't  understand  his  getting  so  excited 
about  a  few  trees,"  Mr.  Richard  Roe  muttered. 
"/  never  could.  But  he's  a  game  little  man, 
and  if  he  wants  his  trees  as  bad  as  all  this,  by 
Jove,  he's  got  to  have  'em."  He  rose  lazily, 
and  stood  towering  above  the  cot.  "  It's  all 


This  Fortune  251 

right,  Schrofft.  Go  to  sleep.  I'll  have  your 
trees  here  by  the  eighteenth." 

"  You  can't,"  Schrofft  objected  sleepily, 
with  the  unmalicious  frankness  of  one  who 
states  a  well-established  fact.  "  You're  noth 
ing  but  a  bum." 

"  Go  to  sleep,"  Mr.  Richard  Roe  repeated 
soothingly.  "  Perhaps,  since  there's  so  much 
hurry,  I'd  better  start  to-night.  There's  a 
lovely  moon  now,  like  a  Swiss  cheese.  Last 
night  it  made  me  think  of  beer." 

"  Those  trees  on  the  right  bank,"  Schrofft 
muttered,  trying  to  rise  once  more. 

Strong  hands  pressed  him  back  and  held 
him  there.  "  Schrofft,"  Mr.  Richard  Roe  said 
slowly  and  impressively,  "  pay  attention  just 
one  minute,  and  then  you  can  go  to  sleep. 
When  I  want  anything  I  go  and  get  it, 
sdbe?  Same  as  I  came  here  and  got  grub. 
Same  as  I'd  go  to  the  devil  for  a  drink, 
when  I  want  that.  I  never  happened  to  want 
trees,  but  I'll  get  some  for  you.  Now  go  to 
sleep." 

Under  the  spell  of  the  assuring  voice  and 
the  comforting  grip  of  the  strong  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  Schrofft's  eyelids  drooped  lower 
and  lower,  till  even  the  clatter  of  energetic 


252  The  Little  Gods 

feet  descending  the  stairs  did  not  cause  them 
to  flutter. 

He  must  have  dreamed  still  more  then,  for 
strange  things  happened.  Outside  in  the  vil 
lage,  even  in  peaceful  Bagalayag,  a  riot  rose, 
voices  of  men  angry  and  protesting,  voices  of 
women  tearful  and  imploring,  voices  of  chil 
dren  shrill  with  excitement,  and,  dominating 
all,  a  languid,  vibrant  voice  speaking  some 
times  in  English,  sometimes  in  Spanish,  some 
times  in  crude  but  vigorous  Bisayan,  threaten 
ing,  cajoling,  domineering.  Gradually  all  the 
others  died  away  into  a  murmur  of  resigna 
tion,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  song  of  the  saw 
stopped  with  a  spluttering  drawl  not  unlike 
the  squawk  of  a  frightened  hen.  "  Come 
along,  you  chaps,"  said  the  masterful  voice. 
"  Got  a  job  for  you  other  place,  sabef  " 

The  response  slid  in  falsetto  semitones  from 
a  Mongolian  tongue.  "  Got  plenty  worl-luk 
this  side,"  it  said  sullenly.  "  No  can  do." 

"  Sure  can  do,"  said  the  master.  "  Got  to 
do,  sdbef  Come  along,  you  beggars,  before 
I  tie  your  pigtails  together." 

Then  gradually  all  the  tumult  ceased,  and 
restful  quiet  enveloped  the  Tin-Roofed  House 
and  endured  so  long  that  Schrofft  craftily 


This  Fortune  253 

opened  his  eyes  a  crack,  and  gazed  about  his 
chamber.  It  was  quite  empty.  The  heavy 
lids  drooped  once  more,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep, 
untroubled  sleep.  And  as  he  slept,  the  cooling 
sweat  bathed  his  worn  body.  Together,  the 
quinine  and  the  excitement  of  the  day  had 
conquered  his  disease;  the  fever  was  broken. 

The  first  impression  borne  in  on  Schrofft's 
consciousness  when  he  woke  next  morning, 
sufficiently  clear  in  mind,  but  weak  beyond 
belief  in  body,  was  that  Bagalayag  was  un 
commonly  quiet,  even  for  Bagalayag.  The 
droning  saw  was  silent;  there  was  no  rustle 
of  bare  feet  on  the  grassy  ways,  no  low  mur 
mur  of  gossip  from  sleepy  tongues,  no  straw- 
muffled  booming  of  rice  mortars,  no  whine  of 
carabao  or  shriek  of  wooden  axle-boxes  as  the 
tuba  was  brought  in  from  the  palm-grove. 
For  a  moment  he  lay  with  an  empty  mind. 
Then  Memory  returned.  "Himmel!"  he 
muttered.  "  I  did  not  dream  it  all! " 

At  the  sound,  a  doddering  old  man  rose 
from  the  corner  and  approached  the  cot. 
"  Does  the  senor  want  anything?  "  he  asked. 

"Where  is  everybody?"  Schrofft  de 
manded.  "Where  is  Juan?" 

"  They  are  all  gone,"  the  old  man  replied. 


254  The  Little  Gods 

"  Only  I  am  left  behind.  The  Senor  Duque 
took  them  all." 

"  The  Senor  Duque  took  them  all !  "  Schrofft 
echoed.  Dukes  are  rare  in  Mindoro. 

"  Si,  sefi-o-or.  El  Duque  de  la  Calle  Milo- 
chentaitres  in  America.  He  took  them  all,  the 
men,  the  boys,  the  Chinese  pigs  who  saw ;  all 
Bagalayag  but  me  —  because  I  am  very  old. 
Only  I  am  left,  and  the  women  and  children 
who  hide  in  the  houses  to  pray.  They  go  to 
cut  down  trees,  all  the  trees  in  Mindoro,  I 
think.  It  is  an  order  from  Ouashingtone. 
The  Senor  Duque  says  so." 

The  Duke  of  io83rd  Street  in  America ! 
Decidedly,  if  Schrofft  had  been  delirious,  all 
Bagalayag  now  outdid  him  in  delusion. 

"  Does  the  senor  want  anything  ?  "  the  old 
man  repeated.  "  If  we  had  guessed  that  the 
senor  had  el  Duque  de  la  Calle  Milochentaitres 
for  a  friend,  we  would  not  have  left  him 
alone  to  be  sick.  It  was  very  wicked,  but  the 
Duque  says  he  will  forgive  us  if  we  get  the 
trees." 

At  the  mention  of  trees,  Schrofft's  lips  had 
contracted.  But  his  mind,  as  unstrung  as  his 
body,  was  at  the  mercy  of  every  emotional 
catspaw  that  ruffled  it,  and  the  childlike  awe 


This  Fortune  255 

and  faith  in  the  voice  of  the  old  man  brought 
a  long-forgotten  sensation  clutching  at  his 
diaphragm.  "  We  have  been  very  wicked ; 
but  the  Duke  says  he  will  forgive  us  if  we  get 
the  trees."  For  all  his  weakness,  Schrofft 
chuckled  a  little  at  the  audacity  of  it.  An 
unwonted  feeling  of  dependence  took  hold  of 
the  self-reliant  little  man.  He  combated  it 
feebly.  "  He  cannot  do  it ;  he  is  only  a  bum," 
Reason  urged.  But  the  protest  of  Reason  was 
purely  formal,  and  triumphant  Cheerfulness 
retorted,  "  He  can  do  anything  —  when  he 
wishes  to." 

"  What  would  the  sefior  like  for  break 
fast  ?  "  the  old  man's  voice  broke  in.  "  He 
may  have  six  little  oysters,  or  two  eggs  passed 
through  water,  or  a  cup  of  milk  with  one  egg 
in  it,  or  a  very  small  fish  not  fried  —  the 
Duque  says  to  fry  is  not  good  for  sick  ones  — 
but  cooked  on  a  sharp  stick,  as  He  Himself 
taught  me." 

Once  more  Schrofft  relaxed  in  the  new  and 
comfortable  sense  of  utter  dependence.  "  Oys 
ters,"  he  murmured  unctuously,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  anticipation  of  the  plump, 
brassy-flavored  morsels  which  were  soon  to 
cool  his  throat.  Deus  ex  Machinal  A  God 


256  The  Little  Gods 

from  the  Machine  of  Things  had  taken  his 
affairs  in  hand. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  the  words  became 
more  than  a  mere  phrase.  In  the  long,  lazy, 
roseate  hours  which  a  convalescent  knows, 
Schrofft  thought  much,  and  the  well-timed 
arrival  of  the  mysterious  Mr.  Richard  Roe  at 
the  crisis  of  his  illness  and  his  fortunes,  the 
unbelievable  eccentricity  of  the  man,  the  non 
chalant  confidence  with  which  he  had  under 
taken  a  task  in  which  he  had  no  part  either 
by  interest  or  training,  all  combined  to  rouse 
in  Schrofft's  mind  that  superstition  which  is 
so  fundamental  an  element  in  all  us  Aryans. 
The  manifestation  took  the  guise  of  Hero- 
Worship.  An  unreasoning  faith  in  Mr.  Rich 
ard  Roe  got  hold  of  him. 

The  atmosphere  in  which  he  lived  strength 
ened  the  conviction.  Mr.  Roe  was  absent  only 
in  the  body;  the  power  of  his  masterful  per 
sonality  still  moulded  life  and  thought  in  Ba- 
galayag.  The  blear-eyed,  tottering  attendant 
he  had  left  for  Schrofft,  anxious,  fussy,  men 
tally  helpless,  had  one  warrant  for  all  his  load 
of  troublesome  attentions :  "  The  Sefior  Duque 
told  me  to  do  it." 

As  Schrofft  grew  stronger,  and  strolled  out 


This  Fortune  257 

into  the  village,  he  found  its  people  under  the 
same  spell.  Women  and  children  had  grad 
ually  stolen  out  from  the  shacks;  one  by  one 
they  took  up  their  daily  occupation;  the  pat 
ter  of  their  anxious  prayers  was  no  longer  one 
of  the  street-sounds  of  Bagalayag;  they  asked 
Schrofft  trustingly,  "  When  will  the  Duque 
bring  our  husbands  back?  " 

And  Schrofft  answered  just  as  trustingly, 
"  On  the  eighteenth." 

Dimly  he  felt  the  thrill  of  the  contrast,  saw 
primeval  Nature  and  the  lean,  sardonic  Amer 
ican  face  each  other,  and  felt  no  doubt  of  the 
outcome.  Many  times,  as  the  slow  days 
passed,  he  looked  away  to  the  black  mantle 
of  forest  which  clothed  all  the  land  to  the 
south,  close-fitting  and  unbroken  up  to  the 
rough  crest  of  Mount  Bagalayag  itself. 
"  He'll  do  it,"  he  repeated  continually. 

And  Mr.  Richard  Roe  did  do  it.  On  the 
evening  of  the  seventeenth,  a  shrill  clamor  of 
women's  voices  ran  through  the  town,  and 
their  owners  gathered  on  the  river  bank  to 
meet  an  unwieldy  raft  that  was  warping  in 
on  the  brown  and  sluggish  current.  The  huge 
sullen  logs  seemed  bound  to  sink,  in  spite  of 
the  bulk  of  chambered  bamboo  which  buoyed 


258  The  Little  Gods 

them,  but  standing  springily  erect  on  their 
backs,  Mr.  Richard  Roe  dominated  the  raft 
as  he  did  all  things  else.  When  it  grounded, 
he  swung  himself  to  the  shoulders  of  two  of 
his  men  and  was  borne  triumphantly  ashore. 

"  By  Jove,  Schrofft,"  was  his  greeting, 
"  glad  to  see  you  looking  that  way."  He 
flipped  a  hand  behind  him,  and  added  casually, 
"  There  are  your  trees,"  and  that  was  all  of  the 
little  epic  of  the  forest  which  Schrofft  ever 
heard  from  his  lips,  except  for  fragments  which 
he  tossed  out  to  laugh  at.  But  from  the  tales 
which  the  restored  husbands  and  fathers  of 
Bagalayag  chattered  to  their  families,  he  gath 
ered  a  picture  of  heart-breaking  toil  and  en 
durance,  and  cheerful,  laughing  resourceful 
ness  which  filled  him  with  a  yearning  admira 
tion  for  its  central  figure. 

That  night,  had  Mr.  Richard  Roe  so  chosen, 
he  might  have  become  hereditary  lord  of  Ba 
galayag  in  Mindoro,  and  laughed  at  the  law, 
the  Constitution  and  the  flag,  schoolhouses, 
benevolent  assimilation,  and  human  progress. 
Like  a  travel-worn,  unshaven  monarch,  he  sat 
in  Schrofft's  long  cane  chair,  puffing  content 
edly  at  Schrofft's  cherished  china  pipe,  while 
the  unfaithful  servant  Juan  knelt  at  his  feet 


This  Fortune  259 

and  revived  the  tarnished  glories  of  the  shining 
boots,  and  his  primitive  worshippers  poured 
in  a  stream  of  tribute,  herbs  of  the  field  and 
fruits,  fish  and  flesh  and  fowl,  indigestible 
sweets  and  death-dealing  drinks  of  home  man 
ufacture.  On  all  alike  he  smiled  kindly  yet 
wearily,  with  the  affable  condescension  of  one 
who  by  divine  right  might  be  severe,  yet 
chooses  to  be  kind.  But  once  his  smile  broad 
ened  into  feeling. 

"  You  won't  find  Lame  Duck  and  Gouty 
Hen  bringing  me  any  thanks  for  stringing 
'em  that  way,"  he  remarked  to  Schrofft,  who 
sat  in  the  background,  as  proud  as  the  mother 
of  one  chicken. 

"Lame  Duck  and  Gouty  Hen?"  Schrofft 
echoed,  puzzled. 

"  My  untamed  Chinks,"  the  Duke  of  io83rd 
Street  explained.  "  That  was  a  stroke  of 
genius,  taking  them.  They  did  the  work, 
while  the  Filipinos  did  the  kicking.  We  sawed 
the  trees  down,  you  know  —  may  not  be  the 
way  to  do  it,  but  we  did  it  —  and  we  three 
took  turns  —  " 

"Lame  Duck  and  Gouty  Hen!"  Schrofft 
spluttered  with  delight.  "  Himmel!  Such 
names !  "  Then  he  became  serious.  "  How 


260  The  Little  Gods 

can  I  pay  you !  When  you  come  I  say  to  you, 
'  I  would  gif  a  hundert  dollars  for  a  man,'  and 
you  are  a  man,  the  finest  I  efer  —  " 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
benevolently.  "  It  was  good  sport.  I  wouldn't 
work  that  hard  for  money." 

"  Of  course  there's  the  —  the  other  side 
too  —  "  Schrofft  stumbled  over  his  words, 
bashful  as  a  maiden  with  her  lover.  "  I  can 
not  thank  you.  You  save  my  life,  you  save 
my  reputation,  you  —  " 

"  Cut  out  the  thanks,  Schrofft,"  Mr.  Roe 
interrupted,  with  a  touch  of  smiling  haughti 
ness.  "  I  don't  like  'em.  You'd  better  be 
clearing  out  now,"  the  weary  monarch  added 
to  his  thronging  admirers.  "  You're  nice  little 
brown  men  enough,  but  I'm  sleepy.  Sigue 
Dagupan,  the  whole  bunch." 

Two  mornings  later,  after  breakfast,  Herr 
Schrofft  again  brought  up  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Richard  Roe's  reward.  In  the  intervening  day 
the  Sarstoon  had  come  and  gone  with  her 
hard-won  load,  and  Schrofft's  admiration  for 
his  miraculous  helper  had  grown  exceedingly. 
With  the  passion  for  work  still  on  him,  Mr. 
Richard  Roe  had  been  everywhere,  and  every 
where  had  been  effective,  on  the  beach,  in  the 


This  Fortune  261 

canoes,  on  the  Sarstoon's  deck  and  in  her  hold, 
even  on  her  bridge. 

Mingled  with  the  boundless  admiration,  was 
another  feeling  which  filled  Schrofft  with  con 
fusion,  while  it  opened  a  vista  to  the  sky-line 
of  his  lonely  life.  Since  young  Erich  Schmidt 
was  killed  before  his  eyes,  twenty  years  gone 
in  Africa,  he  had  wanted  no  friend,  no  bunkie, 
kein  Kamerad.  But  now  —  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
sat  across  his  table  irresistibly  reminiscent  of 
some  wandering,  roue  god,  who  needed  but  a 
whiff  of  Olympian  air  to  refreshen  his  eternal 
youth.  Sun  and  wind  and  work  had  erased 
the  signs  of  dissipated  strength,  sleep  had 
rubbed  out  the  aging  lines  of  work,  and  now 
he  sat  in  the  sala  of  the  Tin-Roofed  House 
lean,  brown,  and  hard,  with  his  rumpled  yellow 
hair  and  trace  of  yellow  beard,  and  sparkling 
eyes  half  smiling  at  Life  and  Fate  —  not  defi 
antly  or  deprecatingly,  but  with  the  faint 
amusement  one  may  find  in  the  vagaries  of 
equals  one  knows  well. 

Mingled  emotions  made  expression  difficult 
for  Schrofft,  and  he  gave  speech  its  most  prac 
tical  form.  "  Here  is  the  hundert,"  he  said 
gruffly,  and  pushed  a  chunky  little  bag  across. 
"  It  don't  pay  you,  nothin'  ef er  can  —  " 


262  The  Little  Gods 

"  The  hundred?  "  Mr.  Richard  Roe  stared 
at  the  bag  as  if  surprised,  but  he  drew  it  to 
him.  "  Oh,  yes.  I'll  take  it  if  you  like, 
Schrofft,  of  course.  Much  obliged."  As  he 
weighed  it  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  darkened  sud 
denly,  and  the  under  lids  drew  tight,  as  if  he 
were  gazing  at  something  far  away  over  the 
blue  water  which  lay  before  him.  Almost  un 
consciously  he  untied  the  cord  that  bound  it, 
and  a  little  stream  of  gold  ran  chinking  out. 
"  Yellow  ones,"  Mr.  Roe  muttered. 

"  It's  not  much,"  Schrofft  said  apologetic 
ally,  "  but  —  What  are  you  going  to  do 
now?" 

Still  unconsciously,  Mr.  Roe's  long  supple 
fingers  had  arranged  the  heap  into  four  little 
orderly  piles,  and  he  was  shoving  them  back 
and  forth,  like  counters  in  some  game.  "  Four 
stacks  of  blue  ones,"  he  muttered. 

"  What  will  you  do  now  ? "  Schrofft  re 
peated. 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Richard  Roe.  "Oh,  yes. 
What'll  I  do?  Well,  Schrofft,  I  never  bother 
to  plan  that  out  far  ahead." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Schrofft,  gathering  head 
for  a  flood  of  speech,  "  you  stay  with  me.  I 
—  I  called  you  a  bum  once.  I  take  it  back. 


This  Fortune  263 

You're  all  right.  The  quickness  to  decide, 
the  way  to  make  everything  do  what  you  want, 
the  good  luck,  you  have  it  all !  " 

"  If  I  did  have  luck/'  Mr.  Roe  muttered 
thoughtfully,  "  that'd  be  enough  to  clean  out 
Rafferty's  bank.  By  Jove,  I'll  do  it.  I'll  play 
the  twelve." 

"  You  come  with  me,"  Schrofft  urged. 
"You  are  young,  you  have  had  your  fling; 
now  it's  time  to  settle  down.  I'll  help  you, 
I'll  be  —  what-you-call  ?  —  the  balance  w'eel. 
I  teach  you  all  I  know,  and  in  two  three  year 
you'll  be  the  boss  of  us  all.  You'll  have  a 
chob  better'n  mine." 

He  hesitated,  for  Mr.  Roe  was  gazing  at 
him  with  a  whimsical  smile.  "  Go  ahead, 
Schrofft,"  he  said.  "  What  kind  of  a  job  is 
yours  ?  What  do  you  get  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  Ten  thousand  mark  a  year,  und  expenses," 
said  Schrofft,  uneasy  for  some  mockery  to 
come. 

"  Ten  thousand  marks !  That's  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars,"  Mr.  Roe  commented.  "  And 
expenses.  That's  a  lot  of  money,  Schrofft. 
But  I  live  simply;  my  expenses  wouldn't  be 
high  enough  to  make  it  pay.  So  I'll  just  go 


264  The  Little  Gods 

back  to  Batangas  and  play  the  twelve.  Twelve 
trees,  you  know." 

Desperately,  imploringly,  Schrofft  argued 
with  him,  dangled  larger  and  juicier  bait  be 
fore  his  eyes.  "  You  might  be  a  partner  in 
the  House !  "  he  cried.  But  Mr.  Roe  remained 
unmoved,  even  at  that  dazzling  prospect,  and 
at  last  Schrofft  lost  his  temper. 

"  You  are  a  bum,"  he  shouted  angrily. 
"  It's  chust  what  I  say  before.  You  haf  no 
home,  no  food,  no  chob,  no  money,  and  —  " 
he  finished  helplessly,  "  Mein  Gott!  You  do 
not  care!  " 

"  Money  could  not  buy  the  glorious  uncer 
tainty  I  enjoy,"  Mr.  Roe  replied  pleasantly. 
"  Calm  down,  Schrofft.  I'm  going  out  to  tell 
'em  to  get  a  canoe  ready  for  me." 

Late  that  afternoon  he  left,  with  his  tattered 
clothing  and  his  shining  boots  and  his  little 
bag  of  gold,  and  his  smile,  which  he  shed  be- 
nignantly  on  the  worshippers  who  thronged 
the  beach.  Only  three  residents  of  all  Ba- 
galayag  were  missing.  Down  the  street  Lame 
Duck  and  Gouty  Hen  stolidly  made  up  lost 
time — Ugh!  Kch-chee-e-e-Arghh!  Kch- 
chee-e-e-U gh !  And  up  in  the  sala  of  the  Tin- 
Roofed  House  a  shaggy  little  man,  his  back 


This  Fortune  265 

resolutely  turned  to  the  window  and  the  leave- 
taking,  puffed  savagely  at  a  big  china  pipe, 
and  exploded  every  now  and  then :  "  Chust 
a  bum !  A  good-for-nothin'  bum ! "  But 
when  the  sun  was  gone  and  all  the  shadows 
on  the  mountain  had  thickened  into  one,  he 
laid  down  the  pipe  and  went  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  long  over  the  darkening  sea. 
"  My  poor  little  bum  god  from  the  machine," 
he  said  wistfully.  "  Now  I  must  forget  him." 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  forget  Mr.  Richard 
Roe.  The  memory  of  him  clung  to  Schrofft 
even  after  his  work  was  done  in  Mindoro, 
and  he  had  bidden  Bagalayag  an  everlasting 
farewell.  In  Manila,  Mr.  Richard  Roe's  image 
dogged  his  busy  footsteps,  and  when  at  last 
he  climbed  the  side  of  the  Rosetta  Maru, 
bound  for  Hongkong  and  home,  Mr.  Roe  was 
at  the  surface  of  his  thoughts.  "  Mein  Gott!  " 
Schrofft  mused,  as  he  leaned  on  the  rail  that 
first  night  out  and  saw  Bolinao  looming  faintly 
in  the  gulf  of  blackness,  far  to  leeward,  "  he 
saved  my  life,  and  now  I  leave  him  in  the 
Philippines." 

He  leaned  there,  absorbed  in  a  vision  of 
the  companionship  which  could  never  be,  till 
the  last  shadow  of  the  islands  had  faded  in 


266  The  Little  Gods 

the  night.  Then  brusquely,  as  if  he  awakened 
himself,  he  turned  forward  to  the  smoking- 
room  and  the  nightcap  of  rum  and  lime-juice 
which  was  his  concession  to  the  luxury  of 
rest.  "  My  poor  little  bum  god,"  he  muttered, 
"  if  he  was  here,  I'd  buy  him  a  drink.  He's 
had  too  many  drinks  already,  though,  poor 
deffel." 

At  the  door  of  the  smoking-room  he  stopped 
abruptly.  "  Butterflies,"  he  grunted  in  dis 
gust,  and  turned  aside  to  a  settee  which  stood 
near  in  the  shadow,  to  wait  for  his  drink  till 
they  were  done.  And  then,  suddenly,  he 
leaned  forward  and  gazed  into  the  brightly 
lighted  room,  for  a  voice  there  had  set  all  his 
nerves  aquiver.  ' '  So  ?  "  he  muttered  incred 
ulously.  "  Kann  nicht  sein!  " 

Inside  the  room  three  men  were  sitting  at 
a  little  table  with  a  bottle  between  them,  all 
dressed  alike  in  spotless  and  unrumpled  linen. 
Their  likeness  ended  with  their  dress.  One 
was  a  boy,  the  down  still  soft  on  his  chin,  but 
his  cheeks  were  pasty  and  he  had  the  dead  eyes 
of  an  evil  old  man.  The  second  was  a  flabby 
man  of  middle  age,  whose  red  face  was  an 
expressionless  mask,  from  behind  which  he 
looked  out  watchfully.  And  the  third,  bril- 


This  Fortune  267 

liant,  flashing,  shedding  a  glow  of  life  and 
strength  around  him,  was  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
in  a  new  guise. 

"  How'd  you  clean  up  over  here  this  time, 
Billy  ?  "  asked  the  boy  in  a  dry,  professional 
tone. 

"  Well  enough,"  Mr.  Richard  Roe  answered. 
"  Went  on  my  uppers  once,  down  in  Min- 
doro." 

"  I  travel  on  'em  all  the  time,"  said  the  wan 
youth.  "  Never  saw  such  luck  as  I  have." 

"  Get  a  mascot,  Mike,"  Mr.  Richard  Roe 
advised  mockingly.  "  That's  what  I  did.  Fin 
est  little  mannikin  of  a  mascot  the  Luck 
Machine  ever  ground  out.  Found  a  little 
Dutchman  down  there  —  down  on  his  luck, 
sick,  almost  crying  for  some  trees  he'd  got  to 
cut  or  lose  his  job  or  his  reputation  or  some 
thing.  I  got  'em  for  him.  The  little  beggar 
was  so  glad  he  gave  me  a  hundred,  and  I 
played  it  on  the  twelve  at  Rafferty's  —  there 
were  twelve  trees  —  and  the  twelve  came. 
They  wouldn't  let  me  bet  again,  so  I  came  up 
to  Manila." 

"  Hell,"  said  the  aged  young  man  apathet 
ically,  "  what's  thirty-six  hundred  ?  I  could 
cash  up  that  myself." 


268  The  Little  Gods 

"  And,"  said  the  other  man,  speaking 
through  motionless  lips,  "  the  lucky  devil 
struck  Manila  just  when  that  tin-horn  Haines 
had  sold  a  mine  down  Mindanao  way.  Haines 
got  to  working  his  bellows  out  to  the  Country 
Club,  wanting  to  back  the  wheel,  no  limit,  and 
Billy  took  him  up  and  played  the  twelve,  and 
the  twelve  came  up  —  twice  running.  That's 
all." 

The  aged  young  man  stared  at  Mr.  Richard 
Roe  with  dropped  jaw.  "  Good  Lord !  "  — 
his  voice  was  an  awe-struck  whisper  —  "  that's 
over  a  million !  " 

"  Considerably  over,  theoretically,"  Mr. 
Richard  Roe  agreed,  smiling  coolly  at  the 
disconcerted  young  man.  "  Unfortunately, 
Mr.  Haines  couldn't  cash  it  all,  so  I  took  his 
notes  for  everything  but  a  goodly  number  of 
thou's.  You  may  have  the  notes  if  you'd  like 
'em,  Mike.  I've  got  all  I  want.  And  get  a 
mascot." 

The  aged  young  man  went  off  into  a  stream 
of  oaths.  "  Where  are  you  goin'  now,  Billy  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last.  "Goin'  —  home?"  His 
voice  dropped  as  he  spoke  the  tabooed  word, 
and  for  a  moment,  through  the  lines  with 
which  greed  and  cunning  and  indulgence  had 


This  Fortune  269 

marked  him,  the  face  of  a  wistful,  heart-sick 
youngster  came  out  dimly. 

"And  a  wife,  and  a  baby?"  said  Mr.  Roe, 
smiling  whimsically.  "  No,  thank  you,  Mike. 
I'm  going  over  to  Siam  and  buy  a  small  tin- 
mine.  It's  a  thing  I've  always  wanted.  I  may 
breed  a  line  of  white  elephants  on  the  side." 
Abruptly,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  come 
to  him,  he  rose  and  filled  the  glasses,  emptying 
the  bottle.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  cried,  holding 
his  glass  aloft,  "  I  ask  for  bottoms  up.  To 
the  Senor  Ess-soffti,  the  prince  of  mascots. 
May  he  live  long  and  die  busy."  The  glasses 
clinked  and  were  emptied.  Mr.  Roe  set  his 
on  the  table.  "  Good  night,  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  and  departed. 

But  his  progress  was  soon  interrupted. 
Blinded  by  the  sudden  darkness  of  the  deck, 
he  lost  his  way,  and  was  nearly  sent  sprawling 
by  the  legs  of  a  man  who  sat  huddled  on  a 
settee,  a  shabby  little  man,  even  in  the  dark. 
"  What  the  devil,"  Mr.  Roe  began,  with  lofty 
displeasure.  He  checked  himself.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  he  said  with  the  elab 
orate  courtesy  of  one  who,  having  the  divine 
right  to  be  insolent,  yet  chooses  to  be  kind. 

Shrinking  as  at  a  blow,  the  shabby  little 


270  The  Little  Gods 

man  drew  in  his  legs.  Even  in  the  gloom  the 
movement  had  an  appealing  humbleness  about 
it  that  went  to  the  ready  sympathy  of  Mr. 
Richard  Roe.  "It's  all  right,  old  chap,"  he 
said.  "  No  harm  done.  Good  night." 

The  shabby  little  man  mumbled  something 
inarticulate,  and  Mr.  Roe,  immaculate,  self- 
sufficient,  free  from  care,  strode  on  and  left 
his  mascot  staring  blindly  out  at  the  dim, 
jumbled  waters  flashing  by.  "  What  luck !  " 
the  mascot  mumbled  to  the  waters,  after  a  long 
time.  And  then  again,  "  What  luck !  " 


CHAPTER    XI 

MCGENNIS'S    PROMOTION 

MY  third  adventurer  was  of  still  another 
type,  a  young  man,  a  boy,  if  you  like,  who  was 
fresh  and  unsullied  in  body  and  mind  and 
heart,  with  life  all  before  him.  The  opponents 
he  fought  with  were  all  inside  himself,  and 
of  the  worth  of  what  he  won  you  shall  judge 
for  yourselves. 

Within  a  minute  or  two  of  six  o'clock  that 
morning  the  sun  rose,  and  it  was  broad,  star 
ing  day.  One  instant  the  world  was  smothered 
in  a  damp,  impenetrable,  almost  tangible  gray- 
ness;  the  next,  its  nakedness  lay  discovered 
in  a  glare  of  light. 

There  was  a  sea  of  limpid  lukewarm  water 
heaving  slowly;  a  ribbon  of  beach,  metallic- 
white;  a  tangle  of  untended,  unproductive 
vegetation;  a  village  equally  untended  and 
unproductive,  except  of  unnecessary  babies, 


272  The  Little  Gods 

where  listless  brown  people  moved  without 
much  purpose,  or,  lacking  the  ambition  even 
to  make  a  show  of  activity,  lolled  where  they 
were. 

The  tropical  sun  had  no  magic  of  half-lights 
to  tinge  it  all  with  romance  or  stir  it  into  fugi 
tive  beauty.  Such  as  Sicaba  was  at  heart,  it 
stood  revealed. 

When  the  sun  rose,  John  McGennis  rose 
too,  and  stood  for  a  moment,  unshivering  in 
the  lukewarm  air,  to  look  down  on  the  poverty 
of  his  town,  before  he  turned  to  pour  water 
over  himself  out  of  an  old  tomato-can. 

Like  the  morning  and  the  sea  and  the  air, 
the  water  had  no  tang  in  it,  and  McGennis, 
drying  himself  slowly  and  methodically,  felt 
no  fresher  for  his  bath.  When  a  youthful  and 
well-tempered  body  fails  to  respond  to  the 
caress  of  sluicing  water,  there  is  generally 
something  wrong  with  the  mind  which  inhabits 
it.  There  was  with  the  mind  of  McGennis. 

The  trouble  lay  outside  his  window.  That 
compound  of  staring  sky  and  sea  and  stared-at 
village  which  the  day  revealed  had  over 
whelmed  him.  As  mere  geological  and  botan 
ical  facts,  Sicaba,  Pagros,  the  Tropics,  had 
proved  too  big  for  him.  They  made  of  him 


McGennis's  Promotion          273 

just  a  spot  of  life,  meaningless  as  an  ant  toil 
ing  unendingly  in  the  forest  of  the  grass-stems. 
Tiny  dot  of  intelligence  that  he  found  himself, 
in  the  midst  of  those  triumphant  physical 
forces,  McGennjs  had  come  to  wonder  whether 
anything  he  could  do  among  them  mattered 
much. 

Slowly  and  methodically,  as  he  had  bathed, 
he  dressed  —  right  sock,  left  sock,  right  shoe, 
left  shoe,  right  puttee,  left  puttee,  put  the  strap 
twice  round,  haul  it  through  the  buckle  and 
tuck  the  end  back  neatly  —  and  when  he  was 
trim  in  his  khaki  and  yellow  leather  he  stood 
for  a  moment  with  the  irresolution  of  inertia 
on  him.  Then  he  pulled  his  knife  from  his 
pocket,  strode  across  to  the  thick  corner-post 
of  his  room,  stooped,  and  with  elaborate  care 
cut  a  notch  in  the  tough,  dense  wood. 

The  post,  from  the  upward  limit  of  his  reach 
to  well  down  toward  his  knees,  was  jagged 
with  such  notches  lying  in  groups  of  seven, 
six  side  by  side,  and  another  cut  diagonally 
across  them.  They  were  a  calendar  of  more 
than  ordinary  significance,  in  the  mind  of  its 
maker.  Each  of  them  represented  a  day  of 
"  Grin,  gabble,  gobble,"  each  checked  off 
twenty-four  hours  in  which  he  had  stuck  by 


274  The  Little  Gods 

his  traditions,  greeting  every  comer  with  that 
contortion  of  the  lips  which,  conventionally  at 
least,  expresses  pleasure,  eating  sufficient  food 
to  keep  his  body  in  repair  —  McGennis  rever 
enced  his  body  unthinkingly  as  an  ancient 
Greek  —  and  in  which  he  had,  both  in  his 
office  and  in  the  primitive  society  of  Sicaba, 
"  waggled  his  jaw,"  and  thereby  overcome  a 
growing  disposition  to  speechlessness. 

With  the  fierce  enthusiasm  of  an  ascetic,  he 
cut  these  records,  ineffaceably  deep,  on  the 
mornings  of  the  days  for  which  they  stood. 
Thus  there  could  be  no  going  back.  Staring 
at  him  from  the  undecaying  wood,  they 
warned  him  that  for  one  more  stretch,  at  least, 
he  must  grin,  gobble,  and  gabble,  or  be  a  quit 
ter. 

They  served  a  more  immediately  practical 
purpose  also.  McGennis  had  found  that  it  was 
the  first  grimace,  the  first  nibble  at  the  food 
his  Occidental  stomach  loathed,  the  first  burst 
of  inane  chatter,  which  came  hard.  Once 
fairly  started,  the  grin  became  a  veritable  smile 
—  how  boyish  and  appealing  he  had  never 
guessed  —  the  chatter  became  animated  ques 
tion  and  answer,  and  his  stomach,  more  funda 
mentally  human  than  Occidental,  found  even 


McGennis's  Promotion          275 

the  food  Sicaba  afforded  preferable  to  empti 
ness.  But  somehow  the  quiet  of  the  evenings 
and  the  stillness  of  the  long  nights  and  the  flat 
ness  of  the  dawns  brought  back  continually 
the  question:  "What's  the  use?"  and  he 
would  have  his  fight  to  make  all  over,  with  his 
notch. 

On  this  particular  morning,  he  stood  for 
a  while  staring  at  the  jagged  post  which  was  at 
once  a  cenotaph  to  his  departed  days  and  an 
altar  prepared  for  the  sacrifice  of  days  to  come. 
Without  counting,  McGennis  knew  that  his 
latest  notch  rounded  out  a  tale  of  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five.  The  possibilities  of  that 
one  post  were  not  exhausted  yet,  and  his  house 
held  a  dozen  other  posts,  virgin  still,  and 
smooth.  And  even  if  he  should  endure  to 
notch  all  the  posts  in  all  the  houses  of  Sicaba 
and  all  the  fringing  palms  along  the  beach, 
and  all  the  trees  in  the  primeval  forest  round 
about,  it  would  result  in  —  what  ? 

McGennis  had  met  a  man  once,  down  in 
Bacolot,  who  made  a  practice  of  getting  as 
drunk  as  possible  once  each  month,  once  and 
no  more.  It  gave  one  something  definite  to 
look  forward  and  back  to,  and  hope  for  and 
regret,  he  had  explained  without  embarrass- 


276  The  Little  Gods 

ment,  and  that  was  an  achievement  for  a  white 
man  in  the  tropics.  McGennis,  staring  glumly 
at  the  record  of  his  featureless  year,  felt  that 
perhaps  that  man  was  as  reasonable  as  any 
other. 

Then,  impulsively,  he  stooped  again  and  the 
knife-blade  flashed  with  mimic  fierceness  as 
he  hacked  at  his  post.  When  he  rose  there 
were  fourteen  new  notches  in  it.  He  had  mort 
gaged  a  fortnight  of  his  new  year.  There 
was  no  sense  in  it,  very  likely,  but  it  was  done, 
and  irrevocable,  and  therefore  comforting  in 
a  way.  He  stood  back,  and  the  first  smile  of 
the  day  curled  his  lips.  The  fool  part  of  him 
amused  the  rest,  and  he  turned  to  the  sala  and 
breakfast  with  some  cheerfulness. 

He  was  making  his  last  few  conscientious 
pecks  at  that  meal,  when  the  Municipal  Sec 
retary,  exalted  and  short-winded  personage, 
climbed  his  stairs  puffingly  and  stood  blinking 
in  the  door.  McGennis  set  his  cup  down  and 
uttered  the  sound  which  trustful  Sicaba  inter 
preted  as  the  outburst  of  uncontrollable  joy. 

"  Well,  Secretario ! "  he  cried,  in  his  atro 
cious  and  unfaltering  Spanish.  "  You're  just 
in  time  for  chocolate.  Milicio ! "  he  shouted 
to  his  cook. 


McGennis's  Promotion          277 

The  Secretary  raised  a  pudgy  hand  in  depre 
cation,  the  dignity  of  an  official  mission  being 
on  him.  "  It  iss  dhe  lattair,  Mr.  Magheenis," 
he  announced,  holding  out  a  crumpled  official 
envelope.  "  Dhe  Supervisor  Provincial  sends 
it  wiv  a  man  to  running." 

Smiling  the  contented  smile  of  a  fat  man 
whose  exertion  is  over,  the  Secretary  sank 
into  a  chair  and  fanned  himself  with  his  hat. 
ff  Sena,  muy  importante,"  he  explained  more 
familiarly.  "  The  courier  cost  two  pesos.  I 
brought  it  over  at  once." 

"  A  letter  by  courier  and  two  pesos! "  Mc- 
Gennis  cried,  knowing  that  surprise  was  ex 
pected.  "  We're  getting  up  in  the  world.  Ex 
cuse  me  if  I  read  it,  Secretario  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,"  the  Secretary  murmured, 
but  McGennis  did  not  hear  him.  He  heard 
nothing,  saw  nothing,  but  those  surprising 
words  in  the  crabbed  writing  of  his  chief, 
which  changed  life  in  a  flash  and  settled  that 
tormenting  question  once  for  all. 

Twice  he  read  the  letter  through  greedily, 
before  he  dropped  it  to  stare  out  through  the 
open  window.  A  kaleidoscopic  change  had 
overtaken  Botany  and  Geology.  The  corner 
of  the  weedy  plaza  on  which  his  house  fronted 


278  The  Little  Gods 

now  lay  fresh  and  clean  under  the  early  sun 
shine  and  the  salty  breeze.  Beyond  it  rose  a 
grove  of  cocoa-palms,  with  brown-thatched 
houses  nestled  in  their  shade,  and  between  the 
tall  columns  of  the  tree-trunks  shot  the  crisp 
sparkle  of  the  blue  Visayan  Sea.  All  at  once, 
even  Sicaba  was  exuberant  with  life,  youthful 
in  beauty,  friendly.  Half  noting  the  change, 
McGennis  raced  along  beside  his  thronging 
thoughts. 

What  the  chief  said  was  true.  He  had 
thought  he  was  forgotten  and  stranded  in  Si 
caba.  Hastily  his  mind  swept  back  over  the 
dragging  year  he  was  just  finishing.  Again 
he  saw  himself  an  enthusiastic  pilgrim  with  a 
work  to  do.  Again  he  went  through  the  dis 
enchantment;  felt  the  vastness  and  wildness 
of  the  Islands,  triumphant  Geology  and  Bot 
any,  burst  upon  him,  reminding  him  for  the 
first  time  that  even  an  Engineer  is  only  a  man 
at  bottom.  And  once  again  he  felt  his  disap 
pointment  in  the  people,  the  simple,  childlike, 
obstinately  pliant  folk  who  listened  so  inter 
estedly,  and  opposed  the  inertia  of  dead  cen 
turies  to  every  improvement.  How  was  one 
to  teach  them  anything?  And  why  should  a 
deputy  provincial  supervisor,  placed  in  charge 


McGennis's  Promotion          279 

of  the  roads  and  bridges  and  harbors  of  the 
whole  North  Coast,  with  headquarters  at  Si- 
caba,  try  to  create  roads  and  harbors  and 
bridges  to  supervise?  That  had  become  the 
question  finally. 

But  he  had  kept  on  trying,  and  now  a  year 
was  up  and  he  had  accomplished  something, 
even  in  hopeless  Sicaba.  The  town  was  a 
little  cleaner  for  his  having  lived  there.  A 
few  people  had  come  to  trust  "  America." 
And  there  were  roads  and  bridges  and  har 
bors,  on  the  blue-prints  in  his  office.  Perhaps 
it  had  paid  after  all.  At  any  rate  the  people 
liked  him,  and  he  liked  them.  The  fat  old 
Secretario,  now  — 

Just  then  that  patient  man  interrupted  him 
with  the  most  suppressed  of  coughs.  "  Well, 
Secretario,"  said  McGennis,  rousing,  "  let's 
drink  our  chocolate.  I  must  have  been  dream 
ing.  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting  long?  " 

"  Only  a  moment,"  the  visitor  assured  him, 
though  the  Deputy  Supervisor's  day-dream 
had  lasted  long  for  any  dream,  "  only  a  mo 
ment.  I  hope,"  he  added,  curiosity  struggling 
with  courtesy,  "  that  I  did  not  bring  bad 
news." 

"  Bad  news !  "  McGennis  beamed  on  him. 


280  The  Little  Gods 

"  You  brought  the  best  little  old  news  you'll 
ever  tote.  Secretario,  if  you  never  promulgate 
worse  news  than  that,  you'll  boost  your  cir 
culation  a  thousand  a  day.  It  was  red  news 
with  green  edges." 

The  Secretary  could  understand  the  tone, 
if  the  words  were  beyond  him,  and  his  smile 
matched  McGennis's  own.  "  I  could  almost 
believe,"  he  hinted  with  elephantine  archness, 
"  that  the  Government  has  increased  your 
salary." 

"  Secretario,"  said  McGennis  approvingly, 
"  you  hit  the  truth  in  the  eye  that  time.  But 
that  isn't  the  best  of  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Secretary  promptly,  "  then 
you  are  also  to  be  married." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  McGennis  shouted 
scornfully.  "  Not  on  your  life,  Secretario. 
They've  raised  me." 

"  Raised  you,"  the  Secretary  murmured  un- 
comprehendingly.  Most  of  McGennis's  con 
versation  was  half  incomprehensible  to  him, 
and  all  the  more  entertaining  just  for  that.  It 
brought  him  into  touch  with  words  he  had 
never  heard  of. 

"  Sure,"  McGennis  repeated.  "  Raised  me. 
Shoved  me  up  a  peg.  Promoted  me." 


McGennis's  Promotion  281 

"  Ah,  promoted !  "  said  the  Secretary,  catch 
ing  at  the  flying  tails  of  a  word  he  knew. 

"  In  the  eye  again,"  McGennis  applauded. 
"  Secretario,"  he  began  impressively,  smooth 
ing  out  the  crumpled  letter,  "  the  Old  Man," 
—  so  he  spoke  of  his  chief,  the  engineer  in 
charge  of  the  battle  with  Botany  and  Geology 
in  the  two  great  provinces  of  Pagros  Oriental 
y  Occidental  —  "  the  Old  Man  has  had  his 
eye  on  me,  so  he  says.  And  I  reckon  he  means 
it.  Yes,  sir,  the  old  telescope  has  had  a  sight 
on  yours  respectfully  clear  up  here  in  Si- 
caba." 

"  Yes  ?  "  murmured  the  Secretary,  heroic 
ally  sipping  his  detestable,  lukewarm  choco 
late. 

"  And  he  says,"  McGennis  quoted  freely, 
"  that  I  haven't  made  good  so  worse,  and  that 
having  watered  and  weeded  the  banana  tree  I 
shall  now  open  my  mouth  and  let  something 
drop  therein.  And  what,  Secretario,"  McGen 
nis  demanded  excitedly,  "  what  do  you  sup 
pose  is  going  to  drop?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  Secretary  agreed  placidly,  "  I 
comprehend.  It  is  a  very  good  idea." 

"  You  bet  it  is,"  McGennis  shouted.  "  But 
you  don't  comprehend  enough  to  notice.  Look 


282  The  Little  Gods 

here,  Secretario.  You  know  they're  building 
a  road  up  in  the  Igorrote  country,  and  the 
Igarooters  won't  work,  and  they're  going  to 
put  me  in  charge  of  the  worst  section  of  it 
and  see  if  I  can  make  'em  work.  Will  I  make 
them?"  he  demanded,  rhetorically.  "  Will  I? 
I'm  sorry  for  them  already  yet." 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  Secretary.  "  It  is  a 
very  good  idea.  I  comprehend  with  clearness, 
and  up  to  a  certain  point  I  agree  —  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  McGennis  flatly. 
"  Listen,  Secretario.  I'm  going  away,  sabe? 
No  more  Sicaba  in  mine!  No  more  bridges 
and  harbors  in  a  cat's  eye,  but  some  real  live 
Igaroots  and  a  bunch  of  picks  and  shovels  and 
a  road  you  can  see!  And  dynamite!  Lord, 
Secretario,  you  don't  know  how  good  it'll  seem 
to  hear  a  real  noise  again,  and  —  " 

McGennis  stopped  suddenly,  for  something 
in  his  words  had  at  last  penetrated  to  the  Sec 
retary's  understanding.  Slowly  the  worthy 
officer  put  down  his  cup.  Slowly  he  got  to  his 
feet,  and  over  his  broad,  dull  face  a  little  pro 
cession  of  emotions  made  its  slow  way.  Jovial 
interest  gave  place  to  surprise,  surprise  to  dis 
may,  and  at  last  a  heavy  hopelessness  settled 
on  it.  "  You  go  away  from  Sicaba,  Maghee- 


McGennis's  Promotion  283 

nis?  "  he  asked.  And  then  he  plumped  down 
into  his  chair  again  and  sat  there,  an  embodi 
ment  of  chuckle-headed  woe. 

"  Lord,"  said  McGennis  to  himself,  looking 
at  his  victim  contritely,  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
tossed  it  out  at  him  that  way." 

It  was  a  relief  that  just  at  that  moment  a 
white-clad  native  teacher  should  come  to  the 
door  of  the  schoolhouse  on  the  far  side  of  the 
plaza  and  ring  a  bell  with  nervous,  insistent 
strokes.  McGennis  jerked  out  his  watch,  and 
realized  that  for  the  first  time  in  Sicaba  he  was 
late  in  beginning  his  day.  "  Stay  as  long  as 
you  want  to,  Secretario,"  he  called  back,  rush 
ing  for  the  stairs.  The  Secretary  sat  motion 
less,  and  McGennis,  plunging  out  into  the  sun 
shine,  felt  a  second  pang  of  contrition  for 
having  tossed  it  out  so  suddenly. 

But  his  regret  was  only  momentary.  Some 
how  the  morning  sparkled  as  never  morning 
had  outside  God's  own  country,  and  the  Dep 
uty  Supervisor,  pushing  across  the  plaza  with 
long,  boyish  strides,  responded  to  it.  "  Going 
away,  going  away,"  was  the  refrain  his  feet 
patted  out.  Away  from  Sicaba,  away  from 
isolation  and  obscurity,  out  to  the  big,  big 
chance  which  waited  him.  And  the  chief  had 


284  The  Little  Gods 

been  watching  him,  canny  old  Stewart  who 
said  so  little  and  saw  so  much  with  those  nar 
rowed  gray  eyes  of  his;  hard-mouthed  Stew 
art,  who  handled  his  forces  for  the  overthrow 
of  Botany  and  Geology,  down  there  in  Baco- 
lot,  as  a  general  handles  his  troops.  And 
Stewart,  whose  approval  was  a  grunt,  had  said 
in  so  many  words  that  he,  McGennis,  had 
made  good.  Truly,  it  paid  to  cut  your  notches 
and  let  the  Stewarts  look  out  for  the  meaning 
of  them. 

His  eager,  keen  face  was  so  bright,  as  he 
cut  across  the  angle  where  church  and  convent 
wall  a  corner  of  the  plaza,  that  the  men  who 
had  been  puttering  there  with  stones  and  ce 
ment  dropped  their  work  to  sing  out  cheery 
"  Maayong  a  gas,"  a  dozen  of  them  in  a  vol 
ley. 

"  Maayong  aga,  amigos,"  returned  McGen 
nis,  and  hesitated.  He  was  already  late  for 
school,  but  then  school  is  not  one  of  the  duties 
of  an  engineer  in  charge  of  half  a  province. 
One  of  the  few  duties  that  isn't  his,  McGennis 
had  thought  sometimes.  Still,  this  school  of 
Sicaba,  in  a  way  — 

Somehow  McGennis's  mind  was  working  in 
quick  flashes,  and  even  as  he  hung  there  on  his 


McGennis's  Promotion          285 

heel  he  saw  again  just  how  that  school  had 
become  one  of  his  duties,  and  laughed  grimly 
to  think  of  it. 

There  had  been  a  Maestro  in  Sicaba  once,  a 
bespectacled  American  from  an  East  effete  be 
yond  words,  but  chronic  indigestion  —  coupled 
with  a  coldness  in  the  feet  equally  chronic, 
thought  McGennis,  with  light  scorn  —  had 
caused  his  early  departure.  And  then  the 
school,  in  the  hands  of  four  warring  native 
teachers,  male  and  female,  had  been  going  to 
the  dogs,  until  McGennis,  with  his  inherent 
dislike  for  seeing  anything  go  to  the  dogs 
uncombatted,  had,  with  a  deft  jerk  of  the 
wrist,  straightened  those  four  warring  peda 
gogues  into  their  collars  and  kept  them  there, 
till  a  Deputy  Superintendent  of  Schools  had 
come  riding  up  from  Bacolot  to  see  what  was 
to  be  done  about  it.  McGennis  still  remem 
bered  that  trim,  slim,  innocent-eyed  Deputy 
with  regretful  admiration. 

"  I  reckon,"  McGennis  had  remarked,  with 
the  impersonal  contempt  of  an  Engineer  speak 
ing  to  a  Teacher,  "  you'll  be  sending  up  an 
other  glass-eyed  Dictionary  to  snarl  'em  all 
up-" 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  Deputy  Superintendent 


286  The  Little  Gods 

had  said  thoughtfully.  "  You've  done  surpris 
ingly  well  with  them  yourself." 

"  That,"  McGennis  retorted,  with  huge  sar 
casm,  "  is  because  I've  got  nothing  else  to 
do." 

"  In  that  case,"  the  Deputy  had  said,  look 
ing  at  him  with  smiling  innocence,  "  I'll  let 
you  keep  the  school,  just  to  fill  up  the  time." 
And  then,  unexpectedly,  he  had  swung  to  his 
saddle  and  flicked  a  spurred  heel,  and  gone 
galloping  away,  his  big  Colt's  swinging  at  his 
trim  waist,  and  left  McGennis  wrathful  yet 
admiring. 

"  I  say,  Mr.  McGennis,"  had  been  his  part 
ing  shot,  "  try  to  keep  their  accent  and  vocab 
ulary  back  as  close  to  the  Mississippi  as  you 
can,  won't  you  ?  " 

Rather  than  quit,  McGennis  had  taken  the 
school  and  kept  the  restive  teachers  in  line  by 
counsel  and  admonition,  and  had  even,  when 
he  was  in  town,  taught  for  an  hour  each  morn 
ing  himself,  smiling  with  lofty  contempt  for 
his  womanish  occupation  as  he  revealed  to  his 
pupils  an  accent  and  vocabulary  which  had 
never  been  east  of  the  Missouri.  In  a  way  it 
was  his  school,  but  the  work  those  men  were 
doing  at  the  angle  of  the  plaza  was  infinitely 


McGennis's  Promotion  287 

more  his  work,  and,  late  or  not,  he  swung  on 
his  heel  for  a  look  at  it. 

Of  all  his  schemes  for  the  redemption  of 
Sicaba,  that  culvert  and  its  tributary  ditches 
was  his  pet.  It  had  been  a  nice  problem  in 
drainage  in  a  town  whose  highest  ridge  rose 
only  a  meter  above  high  water,  and  which  yet 
seemed  to  have  an  inexhaustible  capacity  for 
getting  wet  and  staying  wetter.  The  water 
had  lain  two  feet  deep  all  over  the  plaza,  the 
last  rains,  and  a  score  of  men,  fathers  of  fam 
ilies,  had  wrapped  their  faces  in  their  clammy 
cotton  blankets  and  died  stolidly  of  fever,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  women  and  the  babies.  The 
babies  had  been  the  worst  of  it.  It  made  him 
growl  out  ugly  curses  to  see  the  tiny  coffins 
borne  out  of  the  church,  two  and  three  and 
four  a  day,  with  their  tawdry  draperies  of 
pink  calico  draggled  and  beaten  by  wind  and 
rain.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  it  must 
stop.  And  it  was  stopped  now,  if  Yankee 
ingenuity  counted  for  anything,  McGennis 
thought,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  clean  green 
mortar  of  his  culvert. 

"  Is  it  good  ?  "  the  foreman  of  the  masons 
asked  anxiously. 

The  Deputy  Supervisor  surveyed  the  work 


288  The  Little  Gods 

with  puckered  brows.  "  Fine,  Miguel,"  he 
said  genially.  "  Couldn't  be  better,"  and  the 
workmen  smiled  at  each  other  like  pleased 
children. 

"  Two,  three,  four  days,  it  will  be  done," 
Miguel  said  proudly. 

"  Great !  "  cried  his  ruler.  "  You're  a  hus 
tler.  You  and  I've  got  a  little  Irish  in  us,  I 
reckon,  hey?"  And  then,  chuckling  over  the 
bewilderment  his  speech  had  caused,  he  resumed 
his  light-hearted  way  to  school. 

The  big,  sunny  boys'  room,  where  black 
boards  were  fastened  incongruously  and  peril 
ously  to  nipa  walls  and  bright-eyed,  white- 
frocked  Oriental  youngsters  sat  at  American 
desks  when  they  must,  and  drew  their  legs  up 
to  squat  comfortably  at  other  times,  was  very 
cheerful  ordinarily,  far  and  away  the  homiest 
place  in  Sicaba.  But  as  McGennis  entered, 
he  met  a  chilly  air.  For  eleven  months  he  had 
been  impressing  the  beauty  of  punctuality  on 
his  charges,  and  now  he  had  his  reward.  The 
children  stared  with  round-eyed  disapproval. 
The  teachers  greeted  him  with  frosty  cour 
tesy. 

With  twinkling  eyes,  McGennis  marched  to 
the  desk.  "  I  am  late,"  he  reported  meekly, 


McGennis's  Promotion  289 

"  and  —  I  will  let  Alejandro  Angel  name  my 
punishment." 

That  was  an  inspiration.  The  angelic  Alex 
ander  turned  stiff  with  responsibility.  "  I 
sink,"  he  announced  at  last,  "  we  s'all  all  estay 
after  eschool  an'  Meestair  Magheenis  s'all  tell 
dhe  estory  of  dhe  Princesa  who  wass  esleepy." 
A  stir  of  approval  greeted  his  pronouncement. 
The  Sleeping  Beauty  was  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  younger  Sicaba. 

Having  made  his  peace,  McGennis  passed 
on  to  his  own  little  room.  And  there,  while 
detachments  advanced  to  storm  under  his  lead 
ership  the  rough  terrain  of  English  speech,  he 
fell  to  thinking  again  of  his  wonderful  fortune. 
He  would  make  those  Igorrotes  work,  and  he 
would  learn  all  their  legends  and  crafts  and 
games,  and  they  would  be  his  people.  Just  as 
the  people  of  Sicaba  were. 

McGennis,  glancing  down  at  the  long  bench 
where  a  platoon  of  his  people  sat  with  the 
impishly  angelic  Alexander  at  one  end  —  the 
lower  one  —  and  the  wan-faced  village  hunch 
back  at  the  other,  felt  a  sudden  pang.  For  the 
first  time  he  realized  that  some  professional 
pedagogue,  some  glass-eyed  Dictionary,  some 
heavy-handed,  solemn  fellow,  might  have  those 


290  The  Little  Gods 

boys  he  had  made  his.  If  any  one  must  come, 
he  hoped  it  might  be  —  McGennis  ransacked 
his  fancy  for  the  sort  of  man  he  wanted.  And 
he  could  not  find  one!  At  that  he  laughed 
outright.  "  You're  getting  green-eyed,"  he 
said  to  himself,  in  humorous  surprise. 

"Teacher,  what  is  green-eye?"  demanded 
the  hunchback,  and  McGennis  knew  that  he 
had  spoken  his  thought. 

"  Green-eyed  means  a  gazabo  that  thinks 
he's  It,"  he  explained  promptly ;  and  "  What 
is  gazabo,  Teacher?"  demanded  the  tireless 
pursuer  after  knowledge. 

"  Time's  up,"  said  McGennis  laughing. 
"  Rush  along  the  next  gang,  Alejandro,  and 
if  I  catch  you  chewing  bunga  in  school  again 
I'll  wring  your  neck,  sabef  " 

When  the  one  hour  of  his  unmanly  work 
was  done  and  the  last  detachment  had  de 
parted,  McGennis  lingered  for  a  moment  in 
the  little  room,  looking  out  on  the  plaza,  and 
his  eyes  were  very  thoughtful,  almost  wistful. 
"  I  reckon,"  he  muttered,  "  a  fellow'd  hate  to 
leave  the  Hot  Place  if  he'd  been  there  long 
enough  to  get  acquainted,"  and  he  seized  his 
hat  and  hurried  over  to  his  office  in  the  big, 
half-ruinous  convent  which  served  Sicaba  for 


McGennis's  Promotion          291 

municipal  headquarters.  His  step  was  not  so 
wholly  buoyant  as  it  had  been  in  the  morning, 
and  the  world  was  not  quite  so  youthfully 
exuberant.  Not  that  it  was  dead,  as  he  had 
seen  it  so  often  from  his  window  at  sunrise. 
It  was  simply  —  homelike. 

And  in  his  office,  too,  buoyancy  was  lacking. 
Instead  of  taking  up  the  work  he  had  laid 
aside  the  night  before,  and  it  was  work  which 
must  be  finished  quickly  if  he  meant  to  leave 
his  house  in  order,  he  sat  stupidly  for  a  while, 
and  then,  half  unconsciously,  he  reached  up  to 
a  shelf  and  took  down  some  blue-prints  of 
work  which  could  not  be  done  for  years.  Not 
till  all  those  roads  and  bridges  had  some  hab 
itation  more  local  than  a  cat's  eye.  There  was 
the  swamp,  Manapla  way,  a  hundred  good 
square  miles  of  rich  black  mud  where  cacao 
would  grow  like  a  weed,  and  only  a  thousand 
cubic  meters  of  drainage  canal  were  needed, 
twelve  hundred  at  the  outside  — 

There  was  the  growing  bar  at  the  mouth  of 
Cadiz  Viejo  river.  One  jetty,  placed  know 
ingly,  would  scoop  that  out,  and  there  was  an 
ideal  place  for  a  dock  —  McGennis's  short 
brown  hand  smoothed  the  curling  blue-prints 
lovingly,  as  he  fell  to  thinking  again  of  an 


292  The  Little  Gods 

unescapable  successor.  Whom  could  Stewart 
send?  There  was  Haskins.  Haskins  had  the 
education,  McGennis  admitted  reverently,  and 
could  draw  like  a  ruling-machine  and  figure 
like  a  comptometer.  But  Haskins  couldn't 
make  a  monkey  catch  fleas,  and  the  North 
Coast  needed  a  driver,  a  hard-handed  —  and 
yet  not  too  hard.  Brown  could  make  'em 
hustle  all  right,  but  he  would  have  a  new  fight 
on  every  day.  What  the  North  Coast  needed 
was  a  jollier  —  like  Henry?  No,  Henry  was 
a  good  fellow  all  right,  but  he  made  things 
cost  like  contract  work  in  Frisco,  and  the 
North  Coast  was  pitifully  poor.  What  it 
needed  was  a  contriver  like  —  like  —  well, 
like  — 

"  Oh,  hell ! "  said  McGennis  profanely. 
Suddenly  he  stood  very  straight  above  his 
draughting-table,  for  his  door  had  opened. 

The  Municipal  Secretary  and  the  Municipal 
Presidente  came  in.  They  seemed  to  radiate 
an  air  of  funerals,  and  McGennis's  boisterous 
greeting  died  in  his  throat.  The  Secretary 
halted  just  inside  the  door  and  stood  looking 
down,  a  lumpish  statue  of  grief.  The  Presi 
dente,  a  spare,  eager-faced  young  native,  came 
forward  to  McGennis's  table. 


McGennis's  Promotion          293 

"  Damn !  "  said  McGennis  softly,  looking  at 
him. 

"  Sefior  Magheenis,"  said  the  Presidente, 
"  the  Sefior  Secretario  says  that  you  will  go 
away.  Assure  me  that  he  is  mistaken." 

McGennis  started  a  light  answer,  and  cut 
it  short.  "  It's  true,  Presidente,"  he  said 
briefly. 

"  But,"  said  the  Presidente,  "  where  go  all 
our  plans  which  we  made  together?  Remem 
ber  how  we  talked?  You  shall  teach  me  how 
the  good  Presidentes  —  the  Mayors  —  in 
America  do,  and  so  shall  even  Sicaba  be  made 
American  also." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Presidente,"  said  McGennis, 
"  but  you  see  —  " 

"  I  comprehend,"  said  the  Presidente.  "  We 
are  too  little,  too  poor,  too  worthless,  to  take 
the  strength,  the  teaching,  of  a  man  like 
you  —  " 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out !  "  McGennis  begged. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  expected,  and  I  do  not 
expect  it,  now  that  I  comprehend."  There  was 
a  simple  and  impressive  dignity  in  the  little 
Presidente.  "  But  what  comes  to  Sicaba, 
and  to  me?  Excuse  me,  Magheenis  amigo. 
I  can  not  talk  more  now.  Before  you  go  I 


294  The  Little  Gods 

shall  see  you  and  thank  you,  but  excuse  me 
now." 

"  Damn !  "  said  McGennis  savagely,  looking 
after  the  two  silent  figures  as  they  went  out. 
"  What  right  have  they  got,"  he  demanded 
sharply  of  Some  One,  "  to  expect  me  to  drool 
away  my  whole  life  up  here  in  this  God-for 
saken  hole?  Here,  you,"  he  shouted  roughly 
to  the  man-of-all-work  about  his  office,  "  get 
my  horse  saddled  up,  quick.  I've  got  to  ride 
out  and  take  a  look  at  that  cut  on  the  Segovia 
road." 

And  so  he  rode  away  and  escaped  a  day  of 
unwonted  excitement  in  Sicaba  as  the  news 
spread.  People  told  it  to  each  other  as  they 
stood  in  twos  and  threes  before  the  little 
tiendas,  and  the  greater  men  of  the  town,  gath 
ered  in  the  earthen-floored  cafe,  drank  cognac 
in  unusual  and  dangerous  quantities,  three  and 
four  thimblefuls,  some  of  them ;  and  the 
school  children  talked  of  it,  tearfully,  and  the 
monkeyish  little  constabulary  soldiers  in  their 
lime-washed  barrack  —  McGennis  had  given 
them  a  touch  of  that  pliant  mule-driver's  wrist 
of  his,  once  or  twice,  when  their  inspector  had 
been  absent  riding  along  the  eighty  miles  of 
ladrone-harried  coast  which  was  his  charge. 


McGennis's  Promotion  295 

In  all  Sicaba  only  the  Municipal  Secretary, 
sitting  in  his  office  with  an  unlighted  cigar 
between  his  pudgy  fingers,  and  the  young  Pres- 
idente  pacing  up  and  down  somewhere  in  his 
big  house  beside  Sicaba  River,  did  not  speak 
of  McGennis's  going. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon  when 
the  Deputy  Supervisor  rode  back,  himself 
again.  Out  there  in  the  open,  with  the  sun 
and  wind  about  him,  his  brain  had  cleared. 
These  people  had  no  mortgage  on  his  future. 
It  was  a  wrench  breaking  old  ties,  but  not  to 
do  it  in  this  case  would  be  a  piece  of  —  back- 
beyond-the-foot-hills  —  sentimentality. 

So  when  he  turned  into  the  first  street  of 
the  little  city  and  a  man  stepped  out  from  a 
tienda  and  asked :  "  You  go  away,  Sefior  Ma- 
gheenis?"  McGennis,  jogging  along  with  a 
smile  on  his  face,  was  ready  for  him.  "  Sure," 
he  said  carelessly. 

But  he  was  not  ready  for  what  followed. 
For  the  man  put  a  hand  to  his  mouth  and 
called  shrilly :  "  It  is  true,"  and  from  every 
tienda  down  the  length  of  that  long  street,  men 
and  women  came  out  and  stood  looking  up  at 
him,  silently,  sorrowfully,  questioningly,  as  if 
there  were  something  they  wanted  to  under- 


296  The  Little  Gods 

stand,  and  couldn't.  Before  McGennis  was 
half-way  to  the  plaza,  his  smile  was  a  savage 
grin,  and  he  had  kicked  the  big  horse  into  a 
thundering  gallop.  And  so  he  rode  down  be 
tween  the  rows  of  silent  people,  looking 
straight  ahead. 

He  had  reached  the  plaza,  and  was  swinging 
his  horse  for  the  corner  where  his  house  was, 
when  the  sight  of  the  schoolhouse  on  the  far 
ther  side  checked  him.  This  hour,  just  before 
sunset,  had  come  to  be  the  one  playtime  hour 
of  his  busy  days,  and  he  spent  it  at  the  school. 
Not  as  a  teacher,  nor  among  the  boys  who 
were  his  unofficial  pupils.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  school  from  the  boys'  room  was  another 
equally  big  room  crowded  full  of  girls,  and 
it  was  there,  oddly  enough,  that  McGennis 
spent  the  one  happy  hour  when  he  did  not  have 
to  be  a  Deputy  Supervisor. 

Oddly,  for,  as  McGennis  put  it,  he  "  had  no 
use  for  skirts."  In  his  short,  tempestuous  life 
he  had  seen  many  good  men  wasted  for  love 
of  women,  and  far  from  being  curious  at  their 
fate  and  the  causes  of  it,  he  had  drawn  back 
into  himself  till  he  regarded  the  softer  half 
of  humankind  with  a  suspicion  which  bordered 
on  hatred. 


McGennis's  Promotion  297 

But  there  were  women  of  another  sort. 
Tiny  things  whose  little  clinging  fingers  could 
hardly  circle  one  of  his  stubby  ones.  Wee 
things  of  such  primal  innocence  that,  as  they 
stood  unclad  at  the  village  wells,  with  their 
plump  little  brown  bodies  shining  in  the  sun, 
and  their  wisps  of  black  hair  hanging  all  drag 
gled  about  their  faces,  while  their  mothers 
poured  water  over  them,  they  looked  up  un 
abashed  if  he  came  riding  by,  and  smiled  up 
friendlily,  and  lisped  "  Good-a-mornin'." 

Of  such  women  McGennis  had  no  fear,  and 
so  it  had  come  about,  very  gradually,  that  after 
all  the  others  were  gone,  these  little  ones 
waited  in  the  big  room  till  McGennis  came 
with  a  wonderfully  colored  book,  and  then, 
with  shining  eyes  and  tiny  gurgles  of  excited 
laughter,  they  closed  about  him  and  wormed 
their  warm  little  selves  inside  his  arms  and 
balanced  precariously  on  his  shoulders,  steady 
ing  themselves  by  his  hair,  and  lay  piled,  a 
heap  of  eager  heads  and  forgotten  arms  and 
legs,  on  the  big  table  where  the  book  was, 
while  the  Deputy  Supervisor  revealed  to  them 
the  thrilling  difference  between  a  peach  and 
an  apple,  and  the  astonishing  unlikeness  of 
either  to  a  violet.  And  any  one  who  had  come 


298  The  Little  Gods 

unseen  on  McGennis  then,  would  hardly  have 
known  him  for  a  Deputy  Supervisor. 

McGennis,  at  the  plaza  corner,  felt  suddenly 
that  these  friends  of  his  were  waiting  for  him 
then,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  disappoint  them. 
So  he  swung  the  big  horse  and  galloped  across 
and  rolled  from  his  saddle  at  the  schoolhouse 
door  and  pushed  it  open  and  took  one  step 
inside,  and  stopped. 

For  from  the  benches  and  the  crowded  table 
there  rose  a  wail  of  infantile  despair,  so  shrill 
and  queerly,  pipingly  minor,  so  very  manifestly 
the  outpouring  of  very  tiny  broken  hearts,  that 
it  was  like  a  toy  wail,  almost  ludicrous  in  its 
imitation  of  the  real  thing. 

But  McGennis  did  not  smile  at  it.  For  an 
instant  he  stood,  and  then  he  turned  and  closed 
the  door  with  fumbling  fingers,  and  took  the 
few  steps  to  his  horse  stumblingly,  and  climbed 
heavily  into  his  saddle,  and  with  loose  reins 
rode  off  to  his  house  and  went  up  to  his  sola 
and  sat  down  there,  looking  blindly  out  on 
Sicaba. 

The  sunset  came,  brightened,  and  faded,  and 
passed  away,  and  night  shut  down  over  Si 
caba,  and  still  he  sat  there.  His  muchacho 
came  to  light  a  lamp,  and  McGennis  sent  him 


< 


'   •••  ^1 

J 

•*» 


"  With  loose  reins  rode  off  to  his  house." 


[Page  298 


McGennis's  Promotion          299 

away.  Later  his  cook  came,  speaking  author 
itatively  of  dinner,  and  McGennis  sent  his  cook 
away,  too,  and  sat  on  in  the  dark. 

At  last  it  was  the  hour  when  even  Sicaba, 
for  a  little  while,  must  seem  beautiful  to  the 
most  hostile  critic.  It  is  the  hour  when  the 
full  power  of  night  descends  upon  the  world, 
when  the  wind  dies  away  to  the  merest  mur 
mur,  and  the  drone  of  the  surf  becomes  deep 
and  solemn,  and  the  great  yellow  stars  burn 
very  steadily  against  the  soft  velvet  of  the  sky. 

When  that  hour  came,  McGennis  stirred, 
and  stood  up  suddenly,  and  laid  his  hands  on 
the  broad  sill  of  his  window  and  looked  down 
at  Sicaba  and  up  to  the  stars.  "  Of  course 
I'm  going  to  stay,"  he  muttered  impatiently, 
as  if  Some  One  had  asked  him  a  question. 
"  But  it's  up  to  You.  You  butted  into  this 
game,  and  now  You've  got  to  play  the  cards. 
Pedro,"  he  called,  in  quite  another  voice, 
"  bring  a  light." 

When  the  light  was  brought,  he  sat  down 
at  his  table  and  drew  pen  and  paper  to  him 
and  began  to  write. 

"Donald  G.  Stewart,  C.  E.,"  he  wrote, 
tracing  the  magic  initials  with  reverent  care. 
McGennis  would  never  write  C.  E.  after  his 


300  The  Little  Gods 

own  name,  unless  some  day  he  did  the  big,  big 
thing  which  would  lead  a  college  to  give  him 
the  right,  honoris  causa.  He  had  not  the  edu 
cation,  he  knew  that. 

"  DONALD  G.  STEWART,  C.  E. 

"  Supervisor  in  Charge 

"  Provinces  Pagros  Oriental  y  Occidental. 

"  SIR  :  —  I  have  the  honor  to  request  that 
I  do  not  be  transferred  to  Luzon,  because  there 
are  some  jobs  here  which  are  not  done  yet." 

His  eyes  lighted  with  whimsical  amusement 
as  he  thought  of  those  "  jobs  " ;  teaching  a 
presidente  how  to  be  straight,  teaching  brown, 
monkeyish  soldiers  not  to  run  away,  teaching 
the  children  — 

"  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Stewart,"  he  wrote  with 
less  formality,  "  that  I  cannot  leave  the  school 
which  the  Dep.  Super.  Schools  kindly  gave 
me  to  occupy  my  time.  I  am  the  best  teacher 
he  has  got  now,  I  think.  You  can  ask  him." 

Then  formality  returned: 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  thank  you  for  the 


McGennis's  Promotion  301 

kind  words  you  say  about  me  making  good. 
Of  course  I  know  they  are  not  so. 

"  Very  respectfully, 

"JOHN  McGENNis." 

"  There,"  said  McGennis,  looking  down 
thankfully  at  his  completed  letter,  for  he  hated 
letter-writing,  did  McGennis,  "  I  reckon  that 
cinches  it.  When  the  Old  Man  reads  that, 
he'll  sabe  I'm  loco  enough  to  let  alone.  Any 
way,"  he  added,  "  Haskins'll  never  get  the 
chance  to  blow  about  draining  Manapla 
swamp.  Haskins  has  got  the  education  all 
right,  but  he  couldn't  make  a  bald  monkey 
catch  his  own  fleas." 

As  he  entered  his  bedroom,  holding  his  chim- 
neyless  lamp  high  that  the  reek  of  it  might  not 
draw  into  his  nostrils,  his  eye  lighted  on  the 
jagged  post  in  the  corner.  "  Well,"  said  Mc 
Gennis,  looking  at  it,  "  she's  all  notched  up 
for  a  couple  of  weeks,  anyhow.  I'm  that  much 
ahead."  The  boyish  smile  curled  his  firm 
young  lips  once  more,  as  the  fool  part  of  him 
began  to  amuse  the  other  parts.  And  then, 
contentedly,  he  turned  to  his  canvas  cot,  with 
the  heavy,  blue-gray  blankets  spread  upon  it. 

It  is  hard  and  narrow  and  monkish,  that 


302  The  Little  Gods 

couch  which  the  world  provides  for  so  many 
of  her  fighting  men  and  pioneers,  but  to  Mc- 
Gennis  it  seemed  a  Place  of  Rest. 

So  may  they  find  it,  all  my  far-wandering 
friends,  when  to-night  they  stretch  themselves 
on  the  rasping  canvas  and  draw  the  honest, 
blue-gray  blankets  over  them. 


EPILOGUE 

That  is  the  East  which  called  me  with  all 
its  old  familiar  voices,  with  all  the  glamour 
and  color  of  its  pulsating  life.  And  now, 
having  relived  that  life  for  an  hour,  I  have 
come  back  again  to  the  old  house  which  stands 
so  quiet  among  the  frost-bitten  New  England 
woods  and  fields  where  sober-living  men  are 
providing  cannily  against  the  coming  winter, 
in  full  faith  that  their  precautions  will  avail, 
that  a  Great  God  rules  who  permits  no  Little 
Gods  to  turn  His  world  topsyturvy.  I  am  not 
sorry  to  be  back.  The  East  for  the  tasting  of 
life,  the  West  for  living  it. 

I  feel,  regretfully,  as  you  must  have  felt  ac 
cusingly  or  uninterestedly,  that  these  stories 
are  far  from  pleasant.  That  is  because  they 
are  true.  Each  of  them  was  taken  raw  from 
Life.  The  people  of  the  mimic  dramas  you 
have  watched  are  no  puppets  of  my  imagina 
tion;  there  is  no  bit  of  tragedy  or  of  comedy 


304  The  Little  Gods 

written  here,  however  dingy,  that  some  man 
or  woman  has  not  lived.  Whether  you  accept 
that  old  heathen  man's  hypothesis  of  Little 
Gods  or  not,  you  have  looked  on  at  Games 
which  were  played  by  Some  One,  or  by  blind 
Fate.  The  East  you  have  seen  is  the  real  East, 
stripped  of  its  glamour  and  its  color,  a  land 
where  nothing  is  sacred,  where  there  are 
indeed  no  Ten  Commandments  —  no  Com 
mander,  it  seems  sometimes  —  a  land  of  un 
certainty  and  empty  Fatalism. 

Better,  it  seems  to  me,  a  little  less  of  zest  and 
color,  and  a  little  more  of  ballasting  Hope. 


THE   END. 


" Oppenheim's  Latest  Success" 


THE  MISSIONED 


By  E.   PHILLIPS   OPPENHEIM 
Fully  Illustrated.         12mo.        Cloth.        $1.50 


Action,  excitement,  and  mystery  are  three  ingredients 
always  found  in  Mr.  Oppenheim's  novels.  His  new  story, 
"  The  Missioner,"  is  the  compound  of  love  and  adventure 
which  this  author  so  deftly  produces,  and  his  characters 
have  more  than  their  usual  individuality. 

"  The  Missioner's  "  heroine  is  a  beautiful  English  woman, 
of  the  aristocratic  class,  rich,  frivolous,  and  worldly.  The 
hero  is  a  young  man  of  great  personal  magnetism,  high 
ideals,  and  unused  to  the  insincerities  of  society.  Her 
fashionable  amusements  and  his  work  in  the  slums  are  the 
antipodes  from  which  they  both  move  to  meet  on  the 
common  ground  made  possible  by  their  mutual  interest  and 
appreciation.  But  the  lady  has  a  mystery,  and  the  suitor 
has  an  arduous  task  in  clearing  away  the  complications. 

The  book  has  more  the  air  of  verisimilitude  than  have 
some  of  Mr.  Oppenheim's  previous  works,  and  it  gains  in 
strength  from  the  very  likelihood  of  its  happenings.  It 
moves  at  a  breathless  rate  from  the  country  to  London,  to 
Paris  and  back  again,  and  the  reader's  interest  keeps  pace. 

Those  who  read  "The  Missioner"  in  serial  form  pro 
nounced  it  the  best  story  that  this  master  of  romance  has 
yet  written. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &    CO.,   PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


"  Unique  among  novels  " 


THE  MAN 
WHO  ENDED  WAR 


By  HOLLIS   GODFREY 
Illustrated  by  Ch.  Grunwald.     12mo.    Cloth.    $1.50 


Only  anticipates  events  a  few  years.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

Holds  the  reader's  interest  relentlessly.  —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

Vigor  and  imagination  lend  vitality  to  the  plot.  — New 
York  Times. 

A  reincarnation  of  an  improved  Jules  Verne.  —  Portland 
Oregonian. 

A  pretty  love  story  adds  zest  to  the  narrative.  — 
St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

Hollis    Godfrey   has  taken  a  stupendous  theme  and 
written  a  most  amazing  story.  —  Boston  Globe. 

The  handling  of  the  various  scenes  is  most  excellent  and 
even  masterly.  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Those  who  like  their  fiction  full  of  mystery  will  revel  in 
this  galloping  narrative.  —  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

Shows  uncommon  skill  in  utilization  of  the  gigantic 
possibilities  of  modern  discovery.  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &   CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


The  Book  President  Roosevelt  Recommends 


AUNT 
JANE  OF  KENTUCKY 


By  ELIZA   CALVERT  HALL 

Illustrated  by  Beulah  Strong.     12mo.     Cloth.     $1.50 


Aunt  Jane  is  perfectly  delightful.  —  The  Outlook,  New 
York. 

A  book  that  plays  on  the  heart  strings.  —  St.  Louis 
Post-Despatch. 

What  Mrs.  Gaskill  did  in  "  Cranford  "  this  author  does 
for  Kentucky.  —  Syracuse  Herald. 

A  prose  idyl.  Nothing  more  charming  has  appeared 
inrecent  fiction. —MARGARET  E.  SANOSTER. 

These  pages  have  in  them  much  of  the  stuff  that  makes 
genuine  literature.  —  Louisville  Courier  Journal. 

Where  so  many  have  made  caricatures  of  old-time 
country  folk,  Eliza  Gal  vert  Hall  has  caught  at  once  the 
real  charm,  the  real  spirit,  the  real  people,  and  the  real 
joy  of  living  which  was  theirs.  —  New  York  Times. 

Have  you  read  that  charming  little  book  written  by  one 
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tucky" —  by  Eliza  Gal  vert  Hall?  It  is  very  wholesome 
and  attractive.  Be  sure  that  you  read  it.  — PRESIDENT 
THEODORE  ROOSEVELT. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &    CO.,   PUBLISHERS 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


New  Edition  with  Pictures  from  the  Play 


THE  REJUVENATION 
OF  AUNT  MARY 


By  ANNE  WARNER 

Author  of  "  Stisan  Clegg  and  Her  Friend  Mrs.  Lathrop," 

"  A.  Woman's  Will,"  etc. 
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Always  amusing  and  ends  in  a  burst  of  sunshine. — Phil 
adelphia  Ledger. 

Impossible  to  read  without  laughing.  A  sparkling, 
hilarious  tale.  —  Chicago  Record- Herald. 

The  love  story  is  as  wholesome  and  satisfactory  as  the 
fun.  In  its  class  this  book  must  be  accorded  the  first 
place. — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  humor  is  simply  delicious.  —  Albany  Times-Union. 

Every  one  that  remembers  Susan  Clegg  will  wish  also  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Aunt  Mary.  Her  "imperious 
will  and  impervious  eardrums  "  furnish  matter  for  uproar 
ious  merriment.  ...  A  book  to  drive  away  the  bluea 
and  make  one  well  content  with  the  worst  weather. — 
Pittsburg  Gazette. 

Cheerful,  crisp,  and  bright.  The  comedy  is  sweetened 
by  a  satisfying  love  tale.  —  Boston  Herald. 


LITTLE,   BROWN,   &   CO.,   PUBLISHERS 
£54  WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-7,'54  (5990)444 


••lip! 

°01247100    9 


PS 
3539 


